


Though I Am in Still Water 1/5

by buffyaddict13



Category: Band of Brothers / Criminal Minds crossover
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-02
Updated: 2010-02-15
Packaged: 2019-02-23 10:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13187766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyaddict13/pseuds/buffyaddict13
Summary: Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during _The Breaking Point._ You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.

**Written for the Eagle's Nest Crossover Challenge.  
**  
 **Title:**   Though I Am in Still Water 1/5  
 **Author:** [](http://buffyaddict13.livejournal.com/profile)[**buffyaddict13**](http://buffyaddict13.livejournal.com/)    
 **Fandom:** Band of Brothers / Criminal Minds crossover  
 **Rating:** R for language and drug use  
 **Total Words:** ~33,000  
 **Characters/Pairing:** Gen, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Skip Muck, Carwood Lipton, Don Malarkey, Roy Cobb, Bill Guarnere, Joe Toye, Lewis Nixon, Babe Heffron, Eugene Roe, Derek Morgan, Alex Penkala, Dick Winters, George Luz, Don Hoobler, Lester Hashey, etc.  
 **Summary:** Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.  
 **Disclaimer** : I don't own the Band of Brothers book or miniseries. I also don't own Criminal Minds. In fact, I own nothing except my own addled imagination. I'm sad to be me.  
 **A/N 1:** This fic came about for two reasons. The first, is, I love Spencer Reid and decided I wanted to see him as a World War 2 medic. The second is, ~~I'm crazy~~ I thought maybe I could trick fans of Criminal Minds into watching Band of Brothers. *evil laugh* Note: This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during _The Breaking Point._ You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.  
 **A/N 2:** Info on [Criminal Minds](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Criminal_Minds) and [Band of Brothers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Band_of_Brothers_\(TV_miniseries\)) with pics and links to characters for those interested.  
 **A/N 3:** Thank you to [](http://users.livejournal.com/__kat__/profile)[**__kat__**](http://users.livejournal.com/__kat__/)  , [](http://degare.livejournal.com/profile)[**degare**](http://degare.livejournal.com/)  , and [](http://venacavarex.livejournal.com/profile)[**venacavarex**](http://venacavarex.livejournal.com/)  for the absolutely gorgeous artwork. I'll be sharing their pretties throughout the fic. Thank you! ♥

_"To me the front is a mysterious whirlpool. Though I am in still water far away from its center, I feel the whirl of the vortex sucking me slowly, irresistibly, inescapably into itself."_  
~ Erich Maria Remarque, _All Quiet On The Western Front_

 

  
   
artwork by venacavarex  
 

 

 

George Luz blows on his hands, rubs them together. Jesus, it's cold. Don Hoobler grips the steering wheel gingerly, as if he's trying to drive via telekinesis rather than actually touching the frozen wheel.

"How come we gotta pick up the replacements?" Hoobler asks.

"I don't know," Luz huffs. "How come you always gotta ask me questions I don't know the answer to?"

"Guess I thought you knew somethin'." Hoob grins at the icy road. "My mistake."

George rolls his eyes, tucks his hands into his armpits. The sky and road are the same bitter gray. They look interchangeable. Snow lines the road and bends trees low. The jeep bumps over a pothole, the men jounce.

Luz glares. "Christ, watch it."

"You watch it," Hoobler counters, "It's not like there's a nice highway right around the corner. This is it, George. We're goddamn lucky the road's open at all."

George glances at the empty sky. "And that we're not gettin' shelled."

"Anyway, we're here."

Bastogne is in ruins. The church is destroyed, most neighborhoods reduced to piles of rubble. There are dead stacked everywhere, soldiers and civilians, along buildings, in ditches. Hoobler and Luz barely notice.

A few convoy trucks block the road outside the Regiment CP. A light-skinned black man leans against the first truck, sipping coffee. He looks like he could pick Luz up with one hand. Christ, the guy's a friggin' giant. George nods to him.

The giant nods back.

Luz gestures toward the truck. "You bring the replacements?"

The man nods, removes his helmet. His head is shaved smooth. "Jesus," Luz shivers, "put that back on, I'm five degrees colder just lookin' at you."

The driver chuckles. "I got a hard heard. The cold can't get through."

"My head must be made outta jelly," Hoobler complains, hunching his shoulders against the wind.

Luz guffaws. "I ain't gonna argue with that."

"I'm [Morgan](http://pics.livejournal.com/buffyaddict13/pic/000r9aed/s320x320)," the driver says. "The convoy got here about ten minutes ago. You guys got good timing."

"I'm Luz," George says by way of introduction. He points at Hoobler. "You already met Jelly Head."

Hoob shoots Luz a look. "Nice."

"Don't s'pose you know how many guys are comin' to Easy Company, 506th, do you?" George looks around. "Christ, where are they, anyway?"

Morgan jerks his thumb toward a building with a large red cross on the front. Directly next to the aid station is a smaller building with the initials PX stenciled across the door. "One of the sergeants needed ammo. The medic wanted more bandages. Then all of a sudden everybody needed that last pack of smokes, you know?"

Luz nods wistfully. "Do I ever."

Morgan puts his helmet back on, tosses the dregs of his coffee into the snow. "I don't know for sure, but I think Easy has four guys. Maybe five. Most of the replacements are going to first battalion, they got a whole truckload. The rest go to the 82nd. From what I hear, you guys should be thankful you're getting anybody right now."

"That's me," Luz sighs. "Fuckin' thankful."

A clump of men emerge from the PX, two more exit the aid station. "Hurry the hell up," Luz bellows. "We got places to be, Krauts to kill." Luz groans at Don. "Why the fuck did we stuck with this?"

"Because Captain Nixon caught you doing a somewhat unflattering imitation." Hoobler pauses, grins. "And I laughed."

George beams. "Oh yeah. Well okay then." He takes a deep breath, yells again. "Easy Company, over here."

A handful of guys separate from the group and head for Luz. "Jeez," George whispers, "I thought the Germans were drafting kids and old men, not us." He frowns at Morgan. "You said five, there's only four."

Morgan lifts an eyebrow, smiles. "I said _maybe_ five. Hey man, I don't have to be right when I look this good."

Luz laughs. "Now I know why I'm always right. Shit." He turns toward the oncoming men, throws a "Thanks, buddy," over his shoulder to Morgan.

"See you, kid."

 

"Wish _we_ got to drive around all day," Hoobler grumps.

"What, shells don't fall on trucks? You really _are_ a jelly head. Jeez."

The little group surrounds the jeep. There are two guys who look about Hoob's age, a twelve year old medic with non-regulation hair that sticks out below his helmet, and a guy who looks as old as Dike. What the fuck _is_ this bullshit?

"Everybody in." One of the guys opens his mouth, but Luz talks over him. "Ah, you'll all fit just fine. You just gotta be friendly. Get in--and no talkin'. I'm cold and you all look like you had a half hour of training, tops. So let me have my quiet before we get back and I have to teach you guys a bunch of shit."

The twelve year old squeezes into the front seat next to Hoobler. The other three cram in the back. Hoobler turns around, glances at the men. "And just so you know, I got first dibs if anybody finds a Luger."

Luz stares at Hoobler, disgusted. "You're such an asshole sometimes."

Hoobler shrugs, unhurt. "You're an asshole all the time."

Hoob starts the jeep and they jostle down the road. Luz leans his head back, sticks a bent cigarette in his mouth, lights it. He closes his eyes. Okay, so no more Nix imitations for while. Maybe it's time to concentrate on Dike.

* * *

Roe sits hunched against the tree, arms folded. Merde, where are they? He's getting paranoid. Every time the guys go into town or on patrol, he automatically imagines the worst. And ever since Spina got pinked, Eugene's been on his own. Rumor is, a new medic's coming. About damn time.

Most of the men are gathered around a small fire. Domingus is handing out more pancakes. They make a better plate than actual meal, but Roe takes some all the same. Malarkey hands him a cup of coffee.

"It tastes like shit, but at least the cup'll keep your hands warm."

Roe smiles. "Thanks." The cup _is_ warm, it makes his numb hands ache.

"I wish there was a way I could fill my mittens with hot coffee," Skip Muck muses. He puffs on a cigarette, eyebrows furrowed.

"Your head's full of coffee," Penk says.

"Coffee grounds," Malark adds.

"More like full of shit," Babe amends, grinning.

Muck casts a withering look at the men around him. "I'll have you know Malarkey is _not_ in my head." He puts a mittened hand to his chest, bats his eyes at Don. "But he's in my heart."

Don Malarkey chokes on his pancake. Penk smacks him on the back and they both start laughing.

The jeep rolls up and Roe gets to his feet. Looks like Hoob and Luz came back with a couple a guys at least.

"Hey guys," Luz calls, "looky what I got. Buncha ninety day wonders."

One of the guys pipes up, a dark-haired, baby-faced kid with an incongruous smirk. "Ninety-three days, thank you very much."

George chuckles, points at the kid with his cigarette. "That's good. You, I like. What's your name?"

The kid puffs up, like he's been nominated class president. Roe grins into his coffee.

"Private Ken Webb," the kid says proudly.

"Well ain't you cute as button." George turns to the guys around the fire. "Second Platoon, this here's Webb. Webb, Second Platoon."

Roe steps forward, eyes on the skinny kid with the medic armband. "Hey, I'm Eugene."

"He means Doc Roe," Babe calls out. "He's a fuckin' angel."

"Angels don't fuck," Muck explains reproachfully. He sniffs, adds, "They just like to cuddle."

Muck's statement results in a burst of raucous laughter. Jesus, these guys. Roe rolls his eyes, but he's smiling some too. He shakes the kid's hand. The kid's got long fingers, hands that were meant for playing piano or drawing. They're smooth, no callouses. Huh. But he's got a good grip.

"[Spencer Reid](http://pics.livejournal.com/buffyaddict13/pic/000rb35x)," the medic says softly. He looks really young. He's got a thin face. A thin everything. He looks like a scarecrow in ODs. Army regulation wire-rim glasses perch on top of his nose. A few strands of wispy brown hair peek out from beneath the kid's helmet. Reid hasn't been here two minutes and he already looks sick. Huge purple-black bruises ring his eyes.

"Nice to meet you," Roe says.

Reid's lips move into what might be considered a smile. If it is, the kid needs more practice. His eyes dart from Roe's face, to the soldier beside him, then back again.

Reid points to the man next to him. A sturdy looking guy with a calm face and hard eyes. The guy carries himself a little like Winters.

The medic gestures to not-quite-Winters. "This is Sergeant [Aaron Hotchner](http://pics.livejournal.com/buffyaddict13/pic/000ra0h0/s320x320)."

Hotchner nods, eyes scanning the men. His gaze finally lands on Roe's face. He smiles faintly and his whole face softens, transforms him from stranger to friend. "Hotch is fine."

Hoobler points at the last replacement. "And this is Zimmerman."

Zimmerman gives a crisp salute, then blushes bright red.

Bill Guarnere appears, glowering. "Jesus Christ, if you ladies are done gossipin' about recipes and dress patterns, we got work to do." He looks around. "Where's Buck?" Malarkey walks past and Bill grabs his arm. "Malark, you guys okay on mortars?"

Roe guides Reid away from Bill and the hubbub. "I'm gonna show you around, some. You fine with that?" Eugene doesn't care if Reid's fine with it or not. He's gotta get the kid up to speed, but it never hurts to play at manners.

Reid nods. He looks nervous. Scared. Good. He's not stupid then.

"Okay. Follow me."

* * *

Eugene spends a goodly while dragging Reid around to the various foxholes, introducing him. He wants the men to recognize Reid, to know he's here if they need him. Roe shows Reid where the front line is, how close he can get, where the slit trenches are, what direction the CP is.

Reid listens intently, or pretends to. He doesn't say much. But when Roe asks if he's got a lay of the land, Reid recites who's in which foxhole to perfection. It's kinda weird. It's like the kid's been taking notes, but he hasn't touched his pack or medic bag once.

Medic bag. That reminds him.

Roe sinks onto a snow-covered log. "What you got in your kit?" Eugene asks. "You got enough bandages? Sulfa? Morphine? What about scissors?"

Reid frowns, stutters a little. "I--I think so. I don't know how many I'll need. I have ten bandages, three tourniquets, ten sulfanilamide packets, ten sulfadiazine tablet packets, and five morphine syrettes." He opens the bag, looks inside. "I have some aspirin, iodine swabs, and adhesive tape. No scissors, but I have a pocket knife."

"That'll have to do, cuz you ain't gettin' mine."

"What about you? Do you need anything? I could spare you some bandages."

Roe shakes his head. "No you can't." But he likes it that Reid asks. He likes it a lot. He misses Spina. But maybe this kid'll do. "I could use a couple of iodine swabs and some aspirin if you can spare it. Oh, and some medical tags. I'm almost out."

Reid rummages in the bag, hands the requested items to Roe. It's not much--it's not enough--but every little bit helps. Now he doesn't have to scrounge around D Company for aspirin and iodine. It feels like his friggin' birthday.

 

"Okay, last thing, but the most important." Eugene clips the empty mess cup to his belt. He pulls a thin leather chord out of his pocket, wraps it absently around one hand. "You confident in your training? You can stick a needle and tie a tourniquet? Cuz if you're nervous, you can practice on me." He recalls Babe's loud snores and smiles. "Or on Heffron. Hell, when he's out a shell don't even wake him up."

Reid's gaze is on the ground. He stomps a little flat patch in the snow with one boot. "I'm good with a needle. I know how to use a tourniquet. I'm not a doctor, but I think I'm a decent medic." The kid lifts his head, looks Eugene in the eyes. There's a world of sadness in the kid's face, but determination too.

And then, out of nowhere, the kid blurts out: "The first medics were used in Napoleon's army in the 1790s. Then, during the Civil War, the surgeon Jonathan Letterman integrated field medics and evacuation services into the Army. Letterman's plan was implemented for the first time at the Battle of Antietam in September, 1862." He talks like he's been waiting his whole life to tell Eugene the history of medics. He talks like the words mean more than what he's actually saying.

Eugene regards Reid cautiously, runs a hand through his hair. Jeez, even his hair feels stiff and frozen. He has no idea how to respond to the kid's little speech. He settles on, "Huh. Okay. I...didn't know that."

Reid looks vaguely embarrassed, shrugs. "I like to read."

Roe stands, brushes off his pants, amused at the kid's awkwardness. He holds out a hand to help Reid up.

Reid takes it.

"You hungry?"

Spencer looks relieved at the mention of food. He nods. "Starving."

"How you feel about cold pancakes?"

* * *

Eugene helps him dig his foxhole. Carwood Lipton gives Reid some branches to put in the bottom of the hole, so he doesn't end up sitting in melted snow. Digging is hard, almost impossible in the frozen ground, but Reid doesn't care. It keeps his mind busy, his hands occupied. It gives him less time to be scared.

Most of the guys ignore the other replacements, but they're friendly enough to him. He looks for Hotch periodically, but Luz says he's off with McClung and Christensen.

Whoever they are.

Reid feels sick to his stomach. It's not from the pancakes. He's felt sick for weeks. Months. Ever since he got his draft notice. He shouldn't be here.  
Every day he's not in New York he feels like a failure. Guilt whispers in one ear, terror in the other. It's hard to concentrate beneath their constant voice. He jams the little shovel into the fresh pile of dirt and pulls out his shelter half, drapes it over the hole like a makeshift roof. Bill Guarnere walks past, drops a few chunks of heavy wood beside the hole.

"You can use these to keep it from blowin' away. It's either these or a couple a dead Krauts." Bill shrugs, offers Reid a fierce grin. "It's up to you."

Reid looks at the wood. "The wood will be fine, thank you."

Bill nods, pulls a rumpled pack of Lucky Strikes from his jacket. "I see they don't give you replacements winter clothes, neither."

Reid pushes himself up onto the edge of his foxhole, his legs dangle. "No, but you know what I do have?"

Bill lifts his eyebrows, lights his cigarette. He holds the pack toward Reid.

Reid shakes his head. He doesn't smoke. He doesn't drink. He doesn't swear. If he can't physically distance himself from war and his fellow soldiers, he'll do it theoretically. "No thank you."

"Jesus, you're a polite one, aint'cha? So tell me Doc, whaddya have?"

Spencer opens his medic bag and pulls out a packet of sulfadiazine tablets. He rips off the paper cover and holds the plastic container out to Guarnere.

"Eugene says you've been having some trouble, ah, um, urinating."

Bill rolls his eyes so hard Reid can almost hear them. "Jesus Christ Doc, it feels like I been pissin' needles. Urinating? Sheesh." He squints at the pills. "Those them antibiotics? I ran outta mine in Holland."

"These are a sulfonamide antibiotic. They eliminate bacteria that causes urinary, and other types of infections. They stop the production of folic acid within the bacterial cell."

Bill shoots Reid a look. "I don't care if they're filled with fuckin' pixie dust as long as they let me piss in peace."

Reid studies Bill's face. The sergeant looks tired, his face pale beneath the beginning of a beard. But he's got bright eyes and a quick smile. He's loud and brash, but Reid thinks he might like him. Reid can't imagine the things Guarnere's seen since D-Day. He doesn't want to.

"Are you, um, certain you have a urinary tract infection," Reid asks, "and not--" he trails off, wondering how to phrase it without embarrassing both of them.

"For Chrissakes, my nickname's Gonorrhea, I don't actually got it. Gimme the goddamn pills."

Reid hands them over. "Take one pill every six hours. You should be okay by the time they're gone."

Guarnere beams with delight. "I could kiss your little face," he crows. "Thanks, Doc." He stomps off through the snow. Up ahead is Bill's red-haired friend Babe. "Guess what," Bill shouts. "The new Doc fixed me up. I'm gonna be pissin' good as new!"

Reid smiles in spite of himself. What a strange bunch. Still, he can't help feeling a fleeting sense of pride that he helped Bill. Reid shakes his head and slides back down into his hole. He arranges himself on his branch floor as best he can and reaches for his pack. It's filled with paperbacks, his [pocket chess set](http://www.chess-theory.com/images1/86001_travel_set.jpg), a Physics text book, a blanket, and three pairs of socks. He pulls out his favorite book and the chess set.

The books is a worn copy of [_All Quiet on the Western Front._](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All_Quiet_on_the_Western_Front) His mother read it to him when he was thirteen. It's not that Spencer couldn't read it himself. He can read fine. He has an eidetic memory. He knows four languages. He's 23 years old and already has a degree in Physics. Before the war he was working on his second degree at Hunter College in New York City, this time in psychology. Reid just likes to listen to his mother read, ever since he was a child. When Diana Reid reads aloud, she sounds sane.

The chess set is a gift from Reid's best friend Penelope. He met [Penelope Garcia](http://pics.livejournal.com/buffyaddict13/pic/000r8tt5) at Hunter College. She's funny and smart and beautiful. She can always make him laugh, even when he doesn't want to. Reid wonders if Hotch is back yet, if he's interested in playing a game of chess before it gets dark.

He met Hotch at college too. Aaron Hotchner is his psychology professor. Or was. The great thing about Hotch is, he doesn't care if Reid talks too much or quotes random statistics or asks too many questions. He lets Reid stay after class and they talk for hours about the various schools of psychological thought, whether there's merit using psychology in the field of criminology. Hotch's dream is to teach at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Hotch says with Reid's memory and language skills and eye for detail, he could make a great agent some day. Reid doubts this. But you never know.

Reid sighs. Thinking about the future is never a good idea when you're sitting in a foxhole.

Spencer uncaps his canteen, takes a sip of water. He holds onto the book like it's a life line--like it's his mother. Diana Reid would be crushed if she knew her son was a paratrooper on the other side of the world. She's raised him to be a pacifist, to harbor no grudges, no ill will against others regardless of race or creed or skin color. But his mother doesn't even know where she is, much less Reid, so it hardly matters now.

Reid's been through his training, he knows the Army is just as much about waiting as it is about fighting. He waits now, the ghost of Paul Bäumer his companion.

Eventually, Roe comes to check on him. When Joe Domingus brings chow, Hotch is already in line when Reid gets there. Aaron's been on watch with Christensen, manning a machine gun that used to belong to somebody named Smokey Gordon.

Hotch grins at the sight of his friend. "Reid. How are you?"

Spencer watches as Domingus dumps a spoonful of watery soup into his mess tin. "Great," Reid says dryly. The men eat together, chatting, smoking, bitching quietly. Reid and Hotch sit together. Muck, Malarkey and Alex Penkala join them.

"I hear you made Guarnere's dick very happy," Skip says cheerfully. Malarkey and Penk go into fits of laughter at this.

Hotch spits a mouthful of soup back into his cup. He looks at Reid. " _What?_ "

Reid smiles thinly. "Through the miracle of antibiotics." He looks at Muck, eyes narrowed. "Not the way _you_ make his dick happy."

Muck doffs an imaginary hat, delighted. "Touché, my fine fellow. Touché."

Malarkey's another guy with red hair. But his face is rounder, softer than Heffron's. He looks kinder. Sadder. But now, sitting beside Muck, Don Malarkey's positively beaming. Reid used to feel that way around Penelope.

"You wouldn't happen to have a deck of playing cards, would you?" Malarkey asks. They can all hear the hope in his voice.

Reid feels bad crushing it out. He shakes his head. He's good at poker, he's been playing for years. It's how he's pays for school. How he pays for...where his mother is. "I _wish_. You any good at poker?"

Muck elbows his friend. "Is he? He's only the best. Won over three grand in a game just last month."

Malarkey sighs wistfully. "At least my money's somewhere warm and safe."

Reid bites at his lip for a moment. "I...do have a chess set though."

Muck's mouth drops open in wonder. "You're kidding!" His face falls. "You're not kidding me, are you?"

Skip's enthusiasm is catching. "Nope." Reid pauses, casts a quick look at Hotch. Hotch nods almost imperceptibly. "You wanna, uh, play a game?"

"Hell _yeah,_." Muck replies. His expression clearly indicates he thinks Reid is more than a little slow on the uptake.

"I get to the play the winner," Malarkey declares.

"Shut up," Penkala says, "I do."

"Just ignore them," Skip says in a loud imperious voice, steering Spencer toward his foxhole. "They're from a lesser class." He waves his hand. "They can't help it."

This earns Muck a solid punch in each arm. "Heeey," he whines. "That hurt." To Reid he says, in an exaggerated whisper, "See what I mean?"

 

* * *

Hotch shares Reid's foxhole. All the men sleep two, sometimes three, to a hole. The shared body heat keeps them from freezing. The shared camaraderie keeps them from going crazy. Most of the time.

Reid stares at the side of Hotch's head. His friend's helmet is crooked, Reid can see tufts of greasy dark hair. Hotch's hair is nearly as black as Roe's. There's a white spade stenciled to the side of the helmet.

Spencer doesn't think he can sleep. He slept outside during field maneuvers and training, but that's all. He never went camping as a child, never caught fireflies, never laid on his back and counted the stars. Reid learned the the constellations from text books. That's how he learns nearly everything.

Light bursts overhead. A tracer lights the sky. It sounds like a rocket, like something from a movie. A great explosion sounds from some distance away, it cracks like thunder. Reid presses himself into the dirt wall of his foxhole, arms locked around his knees. Frost rains down the back of his jacket, burns his neck.

More shells fall, and Spencer can't understand how the men sit still through it. He's finding it hard to breathe, to keep from screaming. He's finding it hard not to cry.

Hotch's voice is quiet. "They're too far away."

"W-what?"

"The shells won't hit us. Not at this distance. I think we'll be okay."

"These men have already been here over two weeks, Hotch. How do they stand it?"

Hotch yawns, sits up. He positions himself across from Reid. "Men can get used to almost anything."

Spencer shakes his head. "Not this."

"Christensen said you've got to keep your mind occupied. Some of the guys sing. Or count the number of shells. Some of the guys play games, bet on how close the shells come."

"I'll pass."

They sit in silence for a moment. The sky is bright above them. The only constellations here are man-made. And deadly.

"Reid?"

"Yeah?" His voice is a whisper.

"What's the classic definition of a narcissist?"

Spencer blinks, looks at Hotch. "What?"

"You heard me. So tell me the answer."

Reid pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He huffs, half amused, half annoyed. "What, you're trying to get me to think about something else?"

"A good teacher always finds an opportunity to teach."

Reid can hear the smile in Hotch's voice. "That's all well and good, but you're not my teacher any more."

"But I _am_ your superior officer." Hotch reaches for his canteen. "Come on, Reid, you have to figure at least of these guys is a narcissist."

Another shell falls. He swears he can feel the ground shake. He listens for the sound of someone screaming _medic_ , for Roe to call him. Neither happens.

Reid tries to concentrate on Hotch's question. He considers the men of Easy Company. There's Bill, Babe, Skip, Malarkey, Hoobler, Luz, Buck Compton, Bull Randleman, Frank Perconte, Roe. Lipton seems downright kind. Granted, Reid hasn't met everyone yet, Joe Toye is at the aid station, Joe Liebgott and Jim Alley are on watch. But none of the men stand out as particularly egocentric.

"A narcissistic personality is marked by a sense of grandiose, a sense of self-absorption, self-importance, and self-love. A person with a narcissistic personality has little regard for others and unrealistic view of their own qualities. About one percent of the population suffers from some kind of narcissistic personality disorder, and seventy-five percent of those are men."

Hotch chuckles. "I asked for a definition, not an essay."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. How about the difference between a sociopath and a psychopath? Is there one?"

Reid spends the next hour reciting back what he learned in Hotch's class. Then they move on to the latest news from Penelope, and finally, Hotch's wife.

"Have you heard from Haley lately?"

Hotch exhales loudly. "Maybe you should define lately."

Reid frowns, rubs at his chin. "That doesn't sound good."

"You know she didn't want me to come."

Spencer doesn't really blame Haley for her anger, not when Hotch volunteered to fight when he didn't have to. At thirty-six, married, with a three year old son, he was well past the cut-off for drafting. But when Aaron's younger brother was killed in Operation Shingle at Anzio, Hotch enlisted. Haley was shocked. So was Reid.

A week later Reid was drafted.

Now they're both sitting in a foxhole, discussing psychology in the dark.

"I haven't heard from her since November. I got a letter from [Emily](http://pics.livejournal.com/buffyaddict13/pic/000rcqpr) though."

Reid's eyebrows jump. He smiles in spite of himself. "The WAC from Mourmelon-le-Grand?"

Reid can feel Hotch frown at him. "Aren't you too nervous to be having this conversation right now?"

"Looks like I'm feeling better."

Hotch sighs, adjusts his helmet. "Swell."

* * *

Roe yawns, sits himself gingerly on the remains of a stump. He can't tell if it's warmer than yesterday or not. Feels like not. Lipton, Compton, Muck, Malarkey and Guarnere are gathered together, planning a patrol. Malark's bent over, his back serves as a table to hold the map. Malarkey complains loudly.

Buck huffs. "Stop crying, Malark, or I'll nail it to your head."

Bill smiles. "Ya should. It's made a wood."

Compton's back to business. "Guarnere, move them out. Let's go."

Bill nods. "Yes, sir. Second Platoon, let's go."

Reid chooses that moment to walk up to Roe, hovers next to him. "What's going on?"

Roe squints at the retreating men. "Second Platoon guys are s'posed to clear the woods near Foy." He looks up at Reid. The kid still has shadows all over his face, but he looks a little easier today, his expression less pinched. "There's mines out there, we could get busy."

Reid adjusts the strap of his medic bag. "I'm ready."

Eugene smiles. "Good to hear."

"I was wondering," Reid asks, "is there always shelling at night?"

Roe nods. _Merde._ He should have warned the kid. "Afraid so. The Germans just like to wish us goodnight, that's all."

"Those shells make a lousy lullaby," Reid mutters darkly.

Eugene laughs. "You got that right." He smiles wistfully, thinking of a woman with kind eyes, a gentle smile, and healing hands. "I prefer the lullaby my grandma used to sing." He sings the first verse softly, his voice clear and strong. "Dodo, l’enfant do, L’enfant dormira bien vite, dodo, l’enfant do L’enfant dormira bientôt."

"Sleepy time, the young one sleeps," Reid translates.

Eugene Roe's not surprised by much, but Spencer Reid manages to get the job done. This skinny medic knows French?

"I don't know the song," Reid says, a little shy, "but I know French. You're Cajun, right? Is that your accent?"

"Half Cajun," Roe admits. "I grew up in Bayour Chene, Louisiana. Where you from?"

Reid folds his arms against the cold. "I was born in Las Vegas. I've spent the past few years in New York though."

"What'd you do before the war?" Roe asks. He can't imagine what Reid was up to. He looks like he's spent his life inside a library.

"I, uh, was in college."

Roe smirks. He was close. Eugene pulls a K-ration bar out of his pocket. "You want half?" He starts walking, motions Reid to walk with him.  
Spencer shakes his head. "No thanks, I'm not hungry."

Roe stares at him. "It don't matter if you're hungry or not, you eat. You eat three times a day if you got enough food. You get some sleep, you drink as much water as you can. That's how you keep yourself healthy. If you ain't healthy, you can't take care a the guys. You tell them the same thing." He breaks the bar, hands half to Spencer. "Eating don't have nothin' to do with your appetite. You understand?"

Reid nods. His shoulders slump a little, but he takes the food.

* * *

Reid's sitting at the edge of his foxhole, rolling a Walking Liberty half dollar along his knuckles. The silver coin moves back and forth like a soldier doing drills.

Hoobler walks up, the grin on his face so big it hardly fits. He gawps at Reid's hand. "Holy shit, lookit that."

Reid smiles back. He loves magic, sleight of hand. People are always hiding, obfuscating, performing sleight of hand. Most people tend to do it with words. Spencer's had enough obfuscating from his father--when he was still around--from his mother's doctors, from the teachers who didn't know what to do with him in class. He can lie with the best of them, but if at all possible, Reid prefers to limit his sleight of hand to coin and card tricks.

Spencer opens his hand, lets the coin drop inside. Then he moves his fingers delicately, opens his palm again and the coin is gone. "Hey Shifty, we got ourselves a regular Houdini over here!" Hoobler calls.

Shifty and Popeye amble over. Hoobler taps Reid's arm eagerly. "Do it again."

Spencer obeys, and makes the coin disappear a second time. He also pulls it out of Popeye's ear and Shifty's canteen. "Well, I never," Shifty beams. "That is just somethin' else. You have a real talent."

"Thanks," Reid manages. He feels flustered at the attention, a little giddy. He smiles at Shifty's compliment. Shifty seems like a really nice guy. He's quiet, polite, and Reid's never heard him swear. Spencer likes him for that alone.

"You see what I made appear?" Don asks, showing off a Luger. "I just got this off a Kraut this morning. Now I finally got myself a proper souvenir." Hoob looks at the gun as if its the most beautiful thing he's over seen. "Now I gotta show Malark, that little mick's gonna be so fuckin' jealous." He waves. "Later, Houdini."

Spencer frowns after Hoob. Hoobler's a really friendly guy, he seems nice. But Reid can't fathom the purpose of taking souvenirs from dead soldiers, or worse, killing for them. Why would anyone want a reminder of the war? Especially one that's a weapon? Reid's glad he's a medic. If he has to be in the war, at least he doesn't have to carry a gun. He doesn't think he could live with himself if he killed someone, regardless of which side of the war they're on.

"'Scuse me, Doc?" Popeye Wynn blinks up at Reid. "You got any aspirin?"

Reid pulls his thoughts from Hoobler, focuses on the little soldier with the knit cap. "As a matter of fact, I do." He looks closer at Popeye. "Are you okay? Do you have a headache?"

Popeye's face turns pink. "Not exactly. It's my other end."

Shifty grins. "He got shot in the behind back in Normandy."

"And I tripped today like a dummy and fell right on my ass. And damn, if I didn't land right where I got shot."

Reid grimaces in sympathy. "Ouch." He pulls a paper packet of aspirin from his bag, hands it to Wynn. "Here. If they don't help, you come see me again, okay?"

"Will do. Thanks, Doc."

"Doc Houdini," Shifty amends, elbowing Popeye.

Popeye laughs. "That certainly does have a nice ring to it."

Alone again, Reid slips the half dollar into his pocket and heads for the other side of camp. He's got to pee, and he'd rather do it when there aren't a bunch of guys around. Spencer has a hard enough time sharing his thoughts and feelings, he'd rather not share his bodily functions if he can help it. He finds a tree near the latrines and does his business. He's trying to decide if he should look for Hotch or head back to his hole when he hears the sound.

_Click._

The noise is to his right. The sound of a safety going off.

Spencer freezes. It's a German. A German soldier got across the line and he's going to kill Reid which is probably some kind of record since Spencer's been at the front barely two days. He tries to be calm. He thinks desperately, what would Gene do? Or Hotch? Hotch would investigate. Because what if this is a scout and he's already seen where the guys are? Reid can't let him give their position away or tonight the shells won't be so far away. Reid licks his lips, tries to walk through the snow without making noise. He can't tell if he's succeeding or not because his heart is hammering too loudly for him to hear anything else. He doesn't have a gun, and even if he did, he wouldn't use it. But he has a flashlight. Maybe he can hit--

The thought promptly evaporates from Reid's head when he gets a glimpse of the figure behind the battered pine. It's an Easy Company soldier. He's not wearing a helmet. He's got dark blond hair and a face etched with misery. Spencer's seen him before, he needs to remember his name. It has to do with corn. Cobb, that's it. Roy Cobb.

Roy Cobb has the barrel of his .45 pressed into the palm of his hand.

"What are you doing?" Reid asks loudly. He knows perfectly well what Cobb's doing, but he wants to stall for time, announce his presence. Give Cobb a chance to stop while he still can.

Cobb looks up, his face pale as milk, eyes wide. At first he just looks shocked, but then a dull, angry bitterness settles over him. "What the fuck do you want?" he snarls.

Reid ignores Cobb's rage, he knows it's a mask to cover his shame, his despair. Reid's done the same thing himself. It's obvious Cobb hasn't been sleeping, his complexion is sallow, his eyes are bloodshot. Spencer knows there are plenty of men who shoot themselves in the hand or foot, let themselves get frostbite to get off the front line. Depression is dangerous in the civilian world, deadly in the Army. How many friends has Cobb lost to push him this far? Watching your friends die, waiting to die yourself, Reid's surprised there aren't more men standing out here trying to shoot themselves.

"I want to help you," Reid says calmly. "I don't want to be here any more than you do."

"You don't know what the fuck I want. You don't know one fucking thing about me. You're just a stupid fucking replacement who's gonna get himself killed by this time tomorrow."

Reid moves forward, hands out. "That could be. But I can tell you this: if you want to get out here, shoot yourself in the foot, not the hand."

Confusion replaces some of the anger in Cobb's face.

"What?"

Reid moves closer, voice urgent and low. "If you're going to shoot yourself, _don't_ shoot yourself in the hand. Especially in the center of your palm. You think that's going to look like an accident? It won't. Shoot yourself in the foot, you'll be off your feet longer, and you can get around with crutches." Reid smiles without humor. "Your hand has 27 bones in it, your foot 26. Your foot's bound to heal faster, right?"

"Don't you fuckin' judge me," Cobb spits. "You don't know what it's like out here."

"You're right, I don't. But since I'm your medic, it's my job to make sure you don't kill yourself. And if you feel the need to shoot yourself, that you at least do it without blowing your hand off."

They stare at each other. Their breath floats like fog.

Cobb blinks hard, red-faced.

Reid stands still, feigning calm. He's rarely calm, but he's learned to fake it extremely well when he has to. Bullies like it when you're scared, it keeps the balance of power on their side. Reid's dealt with enough bullies and doctors in his life to shift that balance back with words; he doesn't need muscle or status.

Years tick by.

The forest is quiet, no birds, not even the snap of a twig.

Somewhere, Reid suspects, Don Hoobler is still showing off his gun.

Cobb lowers his gradually, almost grudgingly. He doesn't look grateful, but he says "Thanks."

Reid nods. "You're welcome," he says simply. Clinical psychology is still fairly new, many psychological schools of thought prefer to study behavior rather than psychoanalyze or encourage communication. Most doctors don't understand the necessity of talking, sharing feelings, how important it really is. Reid can't blame them. He can talk plenty, but he doesn't share. Sometimes though, there's no other choice.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Spencer keeps his voice casual, but his stomach is clenched. Roy Cobb might act like an asshole, but he's also a man in pain. Reid can identify.

Cobb scoffs, glares. "Talking doesn't help. The only thing that helps is booze. You got any of that in your medic bag, Doc?"

Liquor sublimates pain, it doesn't relieve it. Reid wants to tell Cobb burying the pain will just make it hurt worse in the long run, but he knows Roy won't--can't--listen.

"No. I don't. But I have a pack of cigarettes if you want them. I've got a chess set if you feel like playing. I've got books you can read. And like I said, if you want to talk about anything, I'm a pretty good listener."

Roy scrubs his hands across his face. He drops his arms at his sides and slumps, dejected. He opens his mouth, closes it. Finally, he lifts his face to the sky, eyes squeezed shut. "I miss Smokey," he says quietly.

Reid bridges the distance between them, puts an arm on Roy's shoulder. "So tell me about him."

 

[Part 2](http://buffyaddict-fic.livejournal.com/7214.html#cutid1)   
[Part 3](http://buffyaddict-fic.livejournal.com/7632.html#cutid1)   
[Part 4](http://buffyaddict-fic.livejournal.com/7899.html#cutid1)   
[Part 5](http://buffyaddict-fic.livejournal.com/8177.html#cutid1)


	2.   Though I Am in Still Water 2/5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during _The Breaking Point._ You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.

  
**Written for the Eagle's Nest Crossover Challenge.**

**Title:**   Though I Am in Still Water 2/5  
 **Author:** [](http://buffyaddict13.livejournal.com/profile)[**buffyaddict13**](http://buffyaddict13.livejournal.com/)    
 **Fandom:** Band of Brothers / Criminal Minds crossover  
 **Rating:** R for language and drug use  
 **Total Words:** ~33,000  
 **Characters/Pairing:** Gen, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Skip Muck, Carwood Lipton, Don Malarkey, Roy Cobb, Bill Guarnere, Joe Toye, Lewis Nixon, Babe Heffron, Eugene Roe, Derek Morgan, Alex Penkala, Dick Winters, George Luz, Don Hoobler, Lester Hashey, etc.  
 **Summary:** Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.  
 **Disclaimer** : I don't own the Band of Brothers book or miniseries. I also don't own Criminal Minds. In fact, I own nothing except my own addled imagination. I'm sad to be me.  
 **A/N 1:** This fic came about for two reasons. The first, is, I love Spencer Reid and decided I wanted to see him as a World War 2 medic. The second is, ~~I'm crazy~~ I thought maybe I could trick fans of Criminal Minds into watching Band of Brothers. *evil laugh* Note: This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during _The Breaking Point._ You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.  
 **A/N 2:** Info on [Criminal Minds](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Criminal_Minds) and [Band of Brothers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Band_of_Brothers_\(TV_miniseries\)) with pics and links to characters for those interested.  
 **A/N 3:** Thank you to [](http://users.livejournal.com/__kat__/profile)[**__kat__**](http://users.livejournal.com/__kat__/)  , [](http://degare.livejournal.com/profile)[**degare**](http://degare.livejournal.com/)  , and [](http://venacavarex.livejournal.com/profile)[**venacavarex**](http://venacavarex.livejournal.com/)  for the absolutely gorgeous artwork. I'll be sharing their pretties throughout the fic. Thank you! ♥

_"Bombardment, barrage, curtain-fire, mines, gas, tanks, machine-guns, hand-grenades--words, words, words, but they hold the horror of the world."_  
\- Erich Maria Remarque, _All Quiet On The Western Front_

 

  
 

 

Johnny Martin looks down at Aaron Hotchner. The sergeant appears to be sleeping, helmet tipped over his face.

"Hey," Johnny calls, "rise and shine. You, me and Perco are on watch."

Hotch scratches his jaw, shivers, sits up. "Do I have time to grab some coffee?"

Johnny grins. "Sure. If you grab me some."

In fifteen minutes the three of them are at the outpost, squinting into the fog.

Perco looks from Johnny to Hotch. "Where's my coffee?"

"Aww, you don't wanna stain those nice white teeth," Johnny says with a wink.

"See if I ever lend you toothpaste again, ya asshole."

Hotch smiles, listening idly to their jibes. He doesn't mind not being part of their conversation. He knows Reid's uncomfortable around new people--well, pretty much _all_ people--but they don't bother Hotch. He's been teaching long enough that he's used to seeing new faces on a continual basis.

"Fine, you big baby. You want a sip?"

"No, I do not."

"Then what're you bitchin' for?"

"It's the principal of the thing. You get the replacement a cup a coffee--" Perco glances at Hotch, "no offense, but not me?"

"Technically, Hotch got it for me. And since you just called him a replacement, the only coffee he'll be gettin' you you, is shit he spit in."

Hotch keeps his expression neutral. "Don't worry, I'll only spit once." He lets his lip curl. "Twice, tops."

Martin laughs, slaps Hotch's back. "You're okay, pal."

Perco frowns mightily, mutters into the collar of his coat.

There's noise from behind them, the three of them turn. In the distance, two figures emerge from the slit trenches. Hotch recognizes Reid's thin form immediately.

"It's Reid," Hotch tells the other two.

Martin stares. "Yeah. With Cobb. What's that about? Roy hates everybody." He lifts an eyebrow at Perco. "I don't think I can like the new kid if Cobb does."

"Look, I don't know Cobb, but Reid's a great kid," Hotch says. "He's brilliant. He's sensitive, kind, and compassionate. He's a hell of a chess player, smarter than I'll ever be, and a surprisingly good magician."

"Jesus Christ," Frank says, "he your wife?"

Hotch smiles thinly. "No, but he's the best student I've ever had."

"You're a teacher?" Martin asks, clearly surprised.

"Yeah. I taught at Hunter College in New York for over ten years before I ended up here."

"No shit," Johnny says. "Whaddya teach?"

"Psychology."

"You don't say," Frank says. "How about psychoanalyzin' them Krauts so you can tell me why the fuck they started this goddamn war."

"Wish I knew," Hotch says, ignoring the smaller man's hostility. "I'd love to get us back home."

"So why'd a college professor with a cushy job volunteer to be in the Airborne?" Johnny asks, his tone part curious, part suspicious. "Cuz up 'til now, Perco here's been the oldest guy in the platoon, and you're even older than him."

Frank chuckles. "About time we got another old geezer around here."

Hotch picks up the binoculars resting along the foxhole, peers through them. He thinks of Reid and that damn book he's always toting around. He keeps looking through the binoculars so he doesn't have to look at Martin or Perconte. It's all quiet on the Western front.

"My brother Sean died in Italy. So I volunteered. Simple as that." His voice is nearly as cold as the air.

"I'm sorry," Johnny says quietly. Then, "Guarnere's brother Henry died at Monte Cassino."

"Sean died at Anzio."

That sufficiently ends the conversation. The three of them sit in silence. Perco shivers. Martin glares into the milky twilight. Hotch thinks of his son Jack, and has to lean against the dirt wall. He has a sensation of such longing to see his son he feels physically sick.

The hollow _pop_ of gunfire breaks the silence like glass.

The three men look at each other, then Johnny snatches up the binoculars.

Perco points his rifle. "See anything out there?"

"That didn't sound like a rifle--" Hotch doesn't get to finish because Perco's already out of the hole, running, coat flapping behind him.

"What the fuck, Frank?" Johnny yells after him.

Perco ignores him and keeps going until the fog swallows him whole.

"What the hell got into him?"

Hotch closes his eyes. "That sounded like a pistol shot, Johnny." He opens them, meets Johnny's stunned gaze. "Didn't one of your friends get his hands on a Luger this morning?"

* * *

Roe's sitting against a tree. He stares straight ahead.

Muck and Malark flank Perconte, Muck's got his arm around him.

Buck Compton wanders aimlessly, his face expressionless, but his pale blue eyes leak tears.

Don Hoobler is dead. He shot himself in the leg. Unlike Cobb, Hoobler hadn't meant to shoot himself. His prize Luger had just gone off. Reid feels nauseous. The men's misery is palpable. Reid had expected death on the front line. But not like this.

A tall man with wounded eyes and auburn hair walks up to Gene, bends down.

"Are you okay? I just got the news from Lip."

Roe nods.

"Do you want to come back to CP for a while?"

"Nah. I'm okay."

Reid guesses this must be Captain Winters, the man in charge of the whole battalion. Spencer's heard about him plenty, but this is the first time he's actually seen him. For some reason, Reid had expected a hard man, someone stoic and stand-offish. The men all have good things to say about him, but he's the senior officer, that's to be expected. Now Reid's not so sure.

Winters pats Roe's shoulder gently. "If you change your mind, come down. We've got two medics now, the men can spare you for a while."

Roe smiles weakly. "Thank you, sir."

Reid hangs back, watching.

Winters moves over to Perco.

"What about you Frank?"

"I'm fine," Frank says. Then he blurts, "It's just a fuckin' shame, Cap."

Winters face goes tight. He blinks a few times. "It sure is."

Winters mingles among the men a while longer until a man with unkempt dark hair and a face full of stubble walks up, hands jammed into his pockets.

"Hey Dick, Lip tracked down Dike. You wanna word with him?"

Winters' jaw clenches. "I've got several words for him."

The Captain passes Reid as he heads for the other man. He pauses, turns back.

"Are you Spencer Reid?" The man has an aura of strength, determination, and kindness. He possesses the same unflappability Hotch does.

Reid nods. Flummoxed by the attention, Spencer salutes. "Yes, sir."

Winters offers Reid a wry smile. "At ease, soldier. Welcome to Easy Company. It's good to have you, Doc Roe sure could use the help." He pats Reid's arm with the same combination of respect and affection he used on Roe, then continues on his way. "You ready Nix?"

"Not really, but when has that ever stopped me?"

Reid makes his way over to Roe. He looks back over his shoulder several times as Winters fades into the night. Now he understands why the men respect Winters.

Spencer lowers himself next to Eugene. "I'm sorry about Hoobler."

"You and me both."

Spencer pulls a K-ration bar from his pocket, offers half to Roe.

Roe makes a face, opens his mouth to refuse it, but Reid holds up a finger to shush him.

"As your medic, I believe it's my duty to remind you that you should eat something." He lifts an eyebrow. "Even if you're not hungry."

Eugene purses his lips. "You don't say."

"A wise man told me that."

"Huh. Sounds like he was probably pretty good lookin' guy too."

"I didn't really notice," Reid says, holding up the bar. "I was too busy trying to choke this thing down."

* * *

It's always cold. A constant, heavy, numbing cold.

Hotch has been through his share of winters, he and Haley used to go cross-country skiing. But this is ridiculous. Hotch isn't one to complain--out loud, at least --but god _damn_. He almost wishes he were in the Pacific fighting the Japs. Almost.

Despite the grinding cold and endless snow, life settles into a sort of routine quick enough. Each morning he, Johnny, Perco, and Reid have coffee together. Then Hotch and Johnny spend some quality time mocking Reid for shaving. Captain Winters is always out running a blade over his icy face, shivering good mornings to the men. All the guys are supposed to shave, but Winters doesn't seem to give a damn if anybody actually does. As far as Hotch can tell, the only reason Winters bothers is to be around the men, let them see he's right there with them. Hotch respects him for that.

Reid, on the other hand, doesn't have any stubble to shave. Martin says Reid's just scraping frost off his chin. Aaron knows the real reason Reid shaves isn't to emulate Winters, but to show he's _not_ like the other soldiers. Being clean-shaven is just another way for Reid to separate himself from the rest of the men.

Not that Reid keeps a physical distance. He seems to spend quite a bit of time with Roe, Muck, Malarkey, and Penk. And strangely, Bill Guarnere. Bill has got to be the exact opposite of Spencer in every way. But when Bill blows past talking about how much he misses tits, or comments on the general health of his dick, Reid doesn't even blush.

After coffee there are patrols throughout the day, either first platoon or second, sometimes both. They move away from Foy, deeper into the forest. They dig new foxholes. There've been a few skirmishes, but nothing major. No injuries. The most Reid's done, as far as Hotch knows, is dole out aspirin and lecture Hotch about trench foot. Reid's taken to making a daily circuit of the foxholes, reminding the guys to switch off their socks, to dry the wet ones around their necks. Hotch would be annoyed if Reid weren't so damn sincere about it.

Joe Domingus brings chow and the men gather for dinner each night. Invariably Reid and Skip play chess. Reid always wins, but Skip never seems to mind. Mostly because Skip always beats Malark afterward. Penk watches, making snide remarks through it all. According to Penk, snagging the other guy's Queen is as close to "getting lucky" as Reid's ever been. Hotch suspects Penkala might be right.

The shelling starts up as soon as it gets dark. Hotch knows Reid is still petrified, but he tries hard not to show it; he's taken to counting the shells as they fall. So far the record's seventy-six. Luz and Compton have a bet going they'll reach eighty by the end of the week.

Reid and Hotch share a foxhole most of the time, although after Hoobler died, Reid spent a night with Roe and Babe, another one with Perco and Hashey.

They've been here four days and it feels like a month. Six months. God, the time drags. George Luz helps pass the time with his imitations. Lately, he's been walking up to people and randomly spouting non sequitors, then adding "I read a lot." Hotch is pissed, but if he's honest with himself, Luz really does have Reid's fluttery hands and nervous voice down pat. The first time Luz does it, Hotch tells George to knock it off or else. But Reid laughs and gives Luz tips on how to mimic his gestures in even more detail.

That Spencer Reid is one weird kid.

Reid does his share of keeping up morale. Aside from lending his chess set out, he does little magic tricks now and then. Most of the guys have started calling Spencer Houdini. Reid never admits he likes entertaining the guys, he doesn't have to. He literally glows with pride. It turns out Shifty Powers has a deck of cards, and Reid adds card tricks to his repertoire.

Hotch has heard Easy Company is notoriously hard to break into, to make friends with the "old men." Most of the guys have been together since their training back in '42; they've got an unbreakable bond. They're slow to accept replacements, slower still to grant the new recruits respect. That doesn't seem to be the case for Reid, Hotch figures that's because he's a medic. The men treat the medics with the utmost regard. Hotch's isn't sure why the men have taken a liking to him. Maybe because he's so much older, they figure he's got some kind of experience, or at least common sense. Aaron doesn't have much of the former, but he's got the latter in spades.

Hotch likes Johnny Martin a lot. Martin's got a bit of a temper, but on the whole he's level headed and responsible. He's got a keen sense of humor, a sly smile, and a glare strong enough to knock most men down. Despite their rocky start, Aaron likes Frank Perconte too. The little guy's really into hygiene, but he's quick, and he's generally in a good mood. But the main reason Hotch likes these men, is, they're married. Just like him. Perco even has an eighteen month old son back home. They share pictures of their respective kids while Johnny rolls his eyes.

On January 3, three things happen to break the monotony. The first thing is, a news crew arrives to take movies of the guys to "keep up morale" back home. Hotch doesn't know how looking at pictures of frozen soldiers is going to lift American spirits, but whatever. Muck and Penk manage to mug it up for the camera anyway. The elusive Lieutenant Dike even puts in an appearance.

The second thing is, Joe Toye returns from the aid station.

The guys act like its the second coming seeing Joe again, especially Guarnere. The men gather round to shake his hand, pat his arm. Joe looks relieved to be back, like he's home, instead of back on the front line. Hotch supposes after three years, these men _are_ home to each other. They depend on each other, take comfort in each other, take care of each other.

Aaron watches them, impressed. Hotch had half expected to be surrounded by sociopaths, bullies, martinets, and chickenshit officers in the Army. He thought the Armed Forces would subject him to the dregs of society, men who would make perfect case studies for his psychology class. But the 101st Airborne Division is nothing like that, especially not Easy Company.

Easy Company is full of men from all backgrounds and classes, true citizen soldiers. Some of them are loud, some are quiet, some are bitter, some are perpetually, inexplicably, cheerful. Nearly all of them smoke and swear constantly. But they are all excellent soldiers who respect each other. Hotch is proud to surround himself with men like Johnny Martin and Carwood Lipton. There's only one good thing about war as far as Hotch can tell: it lets you spend time with men who are truly worth knowing, men whom you might never otherwise have the chance to meet.

The only problem Easy Company has, according to the men's constant complaints, is Lieutenant Dike. He's never around, always off wandering through the woods, or talking to Regiment on the phone.

"What the fuck does he do out there?" Muck demands irritably.

Luz shrugs. "Maybe he gets blow jobs from small woodland creatures. Hell if I know. It'd sure explain why he's never around though."

Frank shoots Luz a look. "Hell, if that's the case I'm gonna go find me a couple a squirrels pronto, it's been a while."

Hotch imagines the look of horror on Haley's face if she could hear their conversation. It doesn't stop him from laughing.

The third thing is, they return to the woods outside the village of Foy.

There, they find good news and bad news. The bad news is, the guys from first battalion used their foxholes as latrines. Toye has quite a bit to say about that. The good news is, they get mail delivered from Bastogne.

Reid gets a package from Penelope. Hotch gets a letter from Emily. Perco gets another tube of toothpaste from his wife. Luz jokes that Frank's wife must have the Germans confused with germs.

Hotch is watching Reid unwrap the package when he hears Lipton yell.

"Incoming! Take cover!"

Shifty calls, "They're 88s--they've got us zeroed!"

The first shell falls.

Martin yanks Hotch into his foxhole. Men scramble in all directions, diving for cover. Hotch squints through clouds of dirt.

"Reid! Spencer! Find cover!"

* * *

The first explosion means nothing to Reid. He stares dumbly as snow explodes into a geyser, dirt and ice showering foxholes.

By the time the second shell hits, men are screaming, running for cover. One minute Hotch is standing next to him, the next he's gone. Reid spins, looking wildly for his friend. Then he hears Aaron's voice yelling for him to find cover.

The military is all about following orders. Reid obeys Hotch's. There's a foxhole _right there_ and he jumps in. Muck is already inside, eyes wide, one hand holding his helmet on, the other clasping his rifle to his chest. Reid automatically throws an arm around Skip and they huddle together. Reid expects to be terrified. He's been terrified every time the Germans drop shells, and they haven't even been close before. Now they're getting the crap shelled out of them, and all Reid feels is overwhelming tension.

He should be afraid, he _is_ afraid, but he can't think about it right now. He listens to the cries around him, waits anxiously for the call of _medic._

This time Reid doesn't count the shells, he just listens, _listens_ and the shells sound like thunder, like the world is breaking. It _is_ breaking, he can hear the crack of trees splintering, of earth raining down on helmets, on men who try to dig themselves into the very ground.

And then it comes.

Very faint, but Reid hears it. His heart sounds as loud as the 88s. Louder.

"Medic!"

Spencer pulls himself out of the hole. Behind him, Muck yells "Be careful," but Reid doesn't reply. There's no time. He's running on pure adrenaline. There's no time for thinking, because if he thinks he'll realize he's about to die. So he dodges back and forth between foxholes, following the sound of the wounded soldier.

He doesn't want it to be Hotch.

Don't let it be Malarkey.

Or Bill.

Or Lip.

Reid runs, head down. One hand clamps his bag to his side, the other holds his helmet in place.

"Meeeedic! Reid!"

There are more cries now. Two. Three. Reid leaps over a fallen branch. In another life he would have tripped, fallen on his face, but he doesn't have time for clumsiness now. Lives depend on him.

There.

Lester Hashey is on the ground, face contorted in pain, a great gash in his thigh. Reid kneels beside him, pulls the tear in Hashey's pants wider, inspects the wound. There's no time to feel disgust or horror, to think about the warmth of Hashey's blood on his hands, the copper iron smell. There are approximately five liters of blood in an adult male. Hashey's lost a fair amount, maybe a pint so far, and it's still coming. There's no shrapnel, just a jagged cut in Lester's skin. Reid's sure the femoral artory hasn't been hit, or there'd be a lot more blood and Lester would be doomed like Hoobler. But there's definite damage to the sartorius muscle.

"How's it look, Doc?" Hashey asks, voice cracking. His face is chalk, his fists clench, his eyes plead.

Reid wants to tell Hashey _sartorious_ is the Latin word for sartorial, which means "having to do with tailoring" which comes from _sartor_ or tailor. The sartorious muscle is sometimes called the tailor's muscle. Instead, Reid throws down his bag and pulls out a tourniquet. He wraps the chord above the wound, twists the wooden handle with slick, scarlet fingers. Hashey moans.

"You'll be okay," Reid tells him. His voice bobs up and down, but it doesn't break, so that's something. "This doesn't look to bad. Just a cut in your sartorious muscle."

Hashey blinks at Reid uncertainly. "My what?"

Reid can't help himself. He's nervous, and when he's nervous, he talks. "The sartorious muscle in your thigh. It's sometimes called the tailor's muscle. But the only thing getting stitched up will be you."

Hashey stares at Reid now. " _What_?"

"Never mind, I can't tell a joke, I shouldn't even try. Sorry," Reid mumbles. He tears open a packet of sulfa powder, sprinkles it over the wound, wraps a bandage securely around Hashey's leg. "How's the pain?"

A little color returns to Hashey's face. "Before or after that joke?"

Reid grins. "If you can critique me I'm guessing it's not too bad."

"It's bad, but I think--" Hashey stops, grits his teeth. "Shit. It hurts."

Spencer fumbles open an iodine swab, sweeps the area above Lester's wound clean. Then he jabs a morphine syrette into Hashey's skin. Almost at once, Hashey relaxes. Reid's fingers are covered in blood, he draws a capital M on Lester's forehead to indicate Hashey's been given morphine.

"You gonna be okay?" Reid asks. He can hear someone calling for help nearby.

Hashey nods.

"Okay, I'll be back."

Reid grabs his medic bag and runs off. Distantly, he's aware the shelling has stopped. Pale faces peer out of foxholes. One holds Perco, Joe Liebgott and Moe Alley.

"You guys okay?" Reid asks.

"So far, so good," Perco calls.

Spencer can hear Babe shouting for help, but he doesn't see him anywhere. He sounds panicked, but not in pain.

Henry Zimmerman, one of the guys that came in with Reid and Hotch, is propped against a tree, blood streaming down his face. He has a deep cut above his right eye. Reid can see a glimpse of white bone. He swallows, pats Henry's arm gently.

"Henry, you okay? Stay with me, here." Reid's relieved Zimmerman's skull hasn't been punctured, but the cut bleeds like crazy, and Henry might have a concussion.

"Don't feel so good, Doc," Zimmerman croaks. He leans over abruptly and vomits into the snow. Henry has trouble sitting back up; Reid helps him.

"Look at me," Reid instructs, lifting Henry's chin. He gazes into the soldier's eyes, wishes futilely for more light. Henry's pupils look equal in size.

More shells fall.

The ground shakes beneath them. Zimmerman screams, makes a move to crawl away, but Reid pulls him back.

"Stay here," Reid shouts. "The safest place is below the trees. The wood shrapnel can't hit you here. Stay as close as you can to the trunk."

It's simple logic. Reid doesn't know why more men don't hug the trees intead of dirt.

Roe sprints past, dodges a flying tree branch, crouches momentarily by a tree during another blast. As soon as the dust settles, he takes off again.

Reid ties a bandage around Henry's head, blood instantly seeps through the cloth. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

"No. It barely even hurts. Only knew I was hit cuz I couldn't see through all the blood."

The shelling goes on and on. Reid feels like he's been hunched under this tree with Zimmerman for years.

Finally, there's silence.

It stretches long and thin for five full seconds before there's a stuttering cry of "Me-medic."

Reid runs. The voice sounds like Buck Compton.

Sure enough, there's Compton standing there, helmet at his feet and--

Spencer stops.

He puts a hand to his mouth, takes a deep, shuddering breath.

His eyes see the two men sprawled together on the ground, but his brain refuses to acknowledge them. He licks his lips.

He thinks of Franz Kemmerich from _All Quiet on the Western Front_. Kemmerich, who lost his leg, and then his life. Kemmerich, whose watch was stolen while he lay dying. Kemmerich, whose own friends begged for his boots since Franz no longer needed them.

Bill Guarnere is still wearing his boots. But his right leg is mangled, bones and muscles laid bare.

Joe Toye has his boots as well. Only he's missing a leg. It lies a few yards away, boot intact.

Reid keeps his hand over his mouth so he doesn't cry. So he doesn't scream. He thinks of Paul Bäumer's words: _The war has ruined us for everything._

Yes.

Bill Guarnere is ruined.

So is Joe Toye.

Seing them lying still, their limbs tangled, Reid is ruined as well. He feels as broken as their bones. He is useless.

" _Reid_ ," Eugene Roe snaps. "Don't just stand there. Help me, goddammit."

Reid pulls his hand away from his face. He looks at Roe, the way he kneels in his friends' blood. How he gently works to separate Joe and Bill, tends to their wounds as best he can.

Spencer moves one foot. And then the other. He forces himself forward, forward, until he is next to Roe.

Nearby, Compton sinks onto a log, head in his hands. Luz appears, pale and unnaturally quiet. Lip stands by, offering comfort to Buck. Malarkey settles himself next to Toye, slides an arm around his friend, supports him. Reid loves Malarkey a little for that.

Roe mutters to himself in French while he works on Joe. Joe opens his eyes, stares around dully, his face drawn with pain.

"Okay, Joe," Roe says, tying a tourniquet. He gives Joe two syrettes of morphine.

Malarkey's eyes take up his whole face. He bites his lip. "Doc, what can I do?"

Roe points to the bandage over Toye's stump. "Hold this."

Toye glances at Malark. "You got a smoke?"

"Yeah." Malark holds Toye's dressing in place with one hand, he shakes the mitten off the other and digs in his pocket. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and clumsily sticks one in Joe's mouth, lights it.

Toye inhales deeply, closes his eyes. "Jesus," he laments, "what's a guy gotta do to get killed around here?"

Reid doesn't want to know the answer.

Luz put in a call to the Battalion Aid Station during the shelling. Now, a group of BAS men show up. Roe motions them toward Guarnere.

"Bill, you're going first," Roe announces.

Reid has no idea what to do for Bill. He can't bandage the leg, can't put a tourniquet on it. It wouldn't make a difference if he poured a bucket of sulfa powder over it. No matter what Reid does, it's clear the leg's coming off.

"Whatever you say, Doc," Bill grits through clenched teeth. "Whatever you say."

Reid injects Bill with morphine, careful to hold back his tears. God, he's going to miss Bill. Spencer doesn't know what else to do, so he just squeezes Guarnere's hand, waits with him.

Bill looks at Reid with sunken eyes. He notices Lipton watching.

"Hey, Lip, they got ol' Guarnere this time."

Lip looks like he wants to cry too.

Two men load Bill onto a stretcher. Bill groans, cries out in pain.

"We got you, soldier," one of them says. "Just lie back."

As the men carry Bill away, Guarnere calls back to Toye. "Hey, Joe, I told you I'd beat you back to the States."

Reid gets to his feet slowly, his gaze still fixed on Bill. Spencer wants to follow him, tell Bill he'll be okay, that he lost his leg for a reason. But Reid has no idea if either statement is true, so he stays where he is.

Malarkey lights Joe another cigarette. Toye inhales, blows smoke out his nose. He watches Reid. "You new around here?" Joe asks roughly.

"Finally got me a new Spina," Roe says. "This is Reid, our new medic."

"Huh." Joe's face is sickly, there's dried blood on his chin, his eyes are glassy. Despite this, he nods at Reid, tries to smile. "Good luck."

Reid is dumbfounded. Joe Toye has just had his leg blown off and he's wishing _Reid_ luck. Spencer fights back an urge to tell Joe to be careful with his watch, to hide it, so no one steals it while he's asleep in the hospital. Instead, Reid just whispers, "T-thank you." He wipes his eyes. "You too."

Joe smiles grimly. "I don't need luck. I'm goin' home."

* * *

Reid doesn't know what to do with himself. Everyone seriously injured during the shelling is at the aid station. The wounded are either gone or resting, but their blood remains in the snow. The men walk over it, like it isn't even there.

They talk about how Joe and Bill have "million dollar wounds" and are on their way back to their families, like getting their legs blown off is some kind of reward. Buck Compton's gone too. The rumor is, he just couldn't take seeing his friends blown to hell. Reid doesn't blame Buck at all.

Reid's been trained as a soldier, he's a field medic, he has a degree in physics, and he's read more psychology texts than Hotch. But none of that knowledge helps him cope with what he's seen. These men--Hotch included--have some important, integral part that Reid is missing. They can keep going, they can smile, they can laugh in spite, or maybe _because_ of what they've been through. He thinks back to his conversation with Cobb. Maybe not all the men.

All Spencer wants is to lie down in his foxhole and sleep until the war is over. He has no place else to go. His home is a hole in the dirt. He's become an animal, burrowed into the ground. Let him hibernate.

"Hey, Houdini."

Someone stands over the foxhole, their shadow passes over Reid's face. Spencer doesn't answer.

"Reid?"

It sounds like Muck. Reid rolls over, looks up. "What?"

Skip gives Reid an appraising look. "Are you okay?"

Reid swallows down everything he wants to say, and lies. "Yeah. Sure."

Muck bends down, holds out a parcel. "You dropped this in my foxhole...before. It's your mail."

Reid forces himself up onto his elbows, then into a sitting position. He reaches for the package. "Thanks."

"You bet." Skip hesitates. "See you at chow, right?"

Reid nods. "Sure thing." He doesn't think he'll ever eat again.

Spencer draws his legs up, sets the package on his knees. It's addressed to _Private Spencer Reid_. Private. What a ridiculous name for a rank. They might call you private, but nothing is. There's no privacy anywhere in the Army. Not in the showers, the latrines, barracks. Not even in foxholes. Maybe that's good. If soldiers had a chance to be alone, to think, there'd be a lot more men trying to blow their brains out.

That's Reid's problem at the moment. He's alone. And thinking. Thinking has always been his best weapon, his biggest fault. He used to lie awake nights trying to think up ways to get his school work done, take care of his mother, and get enough money to buy them food. Reid spent his childhood being a parent, caring for his mother, putting up with her depression, her paranoia, her hallucinations. Her eventual diagnosis. He did everything for her--for them: cook, clean, shop. Friends were an impossibility. Even if he could overcome his social awkwardness, the stigma of his intellect, his thin build and girlish looks, he couldn't risk bringing someone home to see Diana. He couldn't risk losing her. Although in the end, he lost her anyway. To her own mind. When he finally broke down and had her committed, she was no longer eating or speaking. She had become a stranger who only resembled the woman who had read to him as a child, played with him. The woman who taught Reid that being himself was far more important than being the person his teachers and fellow students expected--or wanted--him to be.

One of her doctors recommended moving her to a hospital in New York. The doctor spoke of a new treatment, something safer than electroshock: insulin shock therapy. The insulin shots helped. His mother had whole afternoons of lucidity. But gradually, the afternoons dwindled to hours, and the hours to minutes. And then to nothing at all.

Reid holds the package in his hands. He presses his palms against the cool brown paper. Penelope Garcia is the only person who knows the truth about his mother--about Reid. Garcia promised to visit Diana when Spencer left. Reid's afraid she'll keep her promise. He's just as scared she won't. Reid should still be in New York, not sitting in a foxhole feeling sorry for himself. He should be trying to find a cure, some new treatment for his mother. He should have tried to get out of the draft. Reid should have told Hotch, he'd have figured something out. Hotch always does.

Well.

It's all moot now. Spencer's in Easy Company and he's not leaving anytime soon.

Reid opens the package carefully. Inside is a letter, a photo of Garcia, and a purple scarf. The scarf is hand-knit. Reid puts the wool to his face, inhales the scent of home. It smells like musty books and coffee and the lilac perfume Garcia wears. It smells like everything Reid loves. He presses the scarf to his eyes and cries as quietly as he can.


	3.   Though I Am in Still Water 3/5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during _The Breaking Point._ You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.

  
**Written for the Eagle's Nest Crossover Challenge.**

**Title:**   Though I Am in Still Water 3/5  
 **Author:** [](http://buffyaddict13.livejournal.com/profile)[**buffyaddict13**](http://buffyaddict13.livejournal.com/)    
 **Fandom:** Band of Brothers / Criminal Minds crossover  
 **Rating:** R for language and drug use  
 **Total Words:** ~33,000  
 **Characters/Pairing:** Gen, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Skip Muck, Carwood Lipton, Don Malarkey, Roy Cobb, Bill Guarnere, Joe Toye, Lewis Nixon, Babe Heffron, Eugene Roe, Derek Morgan, Alex Penkala, Dick Winters, George Luz, Don Hoobler, Lester Hashey, etc.  
 **Summary:** Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.  
 **Disclaimer** : I don't own the Band of Brothers book or miniseries. I also don't own Criminal Minds. In fact, I own nothing except my own addled imagination. I'm sad to be me.  
 **A/N 1:** This fic came about for two reasons. The first, is, I love Spencer Reid and decided I wanted to see him as a World War 2 medic. The second is, ~~I'm crazy~~ I thought maybe I could trick fans of Criminal Minds into watching Band of Brothers. *evil laugh* Note: This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during _The Breaking Point._ You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.  
 **A/N 2:** Info on [Criminal Minds](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Criminal_Minds) and [Band of Brothers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Band_of_Brothers_\(TV_miniseries\)) with pics and links to characters for those interested.  
 **A/N 3:** Thank you to [](http://users.livejournal.com/__kat__/profile)[**__kat__**](http://users.livejournal.com/__kat__/)  , [](http://degare.livejournal.com/profile)[**degare**](http://degare.livejournal.com/)  , and [](http://venacavarex.livejournal.com/profile)[**venacavarex**](http://venacavarex.livejournal.com/)  for the absolutely gorgeous artwork. I'll be sharing their pretties throughout the fic. Thank you! ♥

_We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces. The first bomb, the first explosion, burst in our hearts. We are cut off from activity, from striving, from progress. We believe in such things no longer, we believe in the war._  
~Erich Maria Remarque, _All Quiet On The Western Front_

 

  
  
artwork by degare

Hotch moves among the men, helping shore up damaged foxholes, digging new ones. First Sergeant Lipton sits next to Luz while Hotch digs.

"Thanks a lot," Lip says quietly. He looks exhausted, his face smudged with grime.

Luz puffs on a cigarette, his eyes far away. "Yeah." He shakes his head, refocuses his gaze on Aaron. "Thanks."

"Sarge?" Skip looks from Lip to Hotch.

Lip pulls off his helmet, sets it in his lap. "Yeah, boy?"

Muck offers a little mock bow. "I beg your pardon, sir, I meant _this_ sarge." He points at Hotch.

Aaron leans against his shovel. He can't imagine what Skip wants with him.

Lip waves one hand in an elaborate gesture. "You're hereby pardoned."

Skip looks at Hotch. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Luz cocks his head, eyes Skip. "Hey, I'm a Tech Sergeant, how come you don't wanna talk to me? Come to think of it, _you're_ a sergeant--God knows why--why don'tcha just talk to yourself?" He grins at his own wit.

Muck rolls his eyes and flips Luz off.

George feigns shock. "You see what he just did?"

A hint of a smile passes over Lipton's face. "Why George, I believe Skip just saluted you."

Hotch shakes his head, gestures to Muck. "Let's get out of here so these guys can take their routine on the road." He drops the shovel next to Luz.

"What about our song and dance number?" Luz calls after them.

Faintly: "You know I don't dance, George."

"Not even if I lead?"

Aaron and Skip move out of the clearing and into the woods.

When they're alone, Skip straightens his shoulders, clears his throat. "Look," Skip says hesitantly, "I...might be out of line, and if I am, I apologize."

Hotch blinks, surprised. He doesn't know Muck as well as Reid does, but he knows Skip to be a happy guy, genial, always willing to help. He's almost always smiling, laid back. This is the first time Hotch has seen the guy look nervous.

"What is it?"

Muck opens his mouth, shuts it. Frowns. He sighs, starts again. "I shouldn't say anything, it ain't any of my business." He turns, shoves his hands in his pockets. For the first time, Hotch notices a spoon sticking out of a button hole on Skip's coat.

"I know you're friends with Houdin--Reid. From before the war, even. I just think he might be having a hard time after Bill and Joe..." he trails off, pulls his hands out of his coat and in a gesture that apparently means _got their legs blown off._

"And maybe he's fine," Skip finishes, "but he didn't look so good a little while ago."

Hotch's first instinct is to tell Muck to get the hell out of his face. Skip's known Reid for what, two seconds? Reid's known him for four _years_. But looking into Skip's worried face, Hotch realizes that right now, between the two of them, Skip Muck is the better friend.

Aaron bows his head, embarrassed. He scratches his neck.

"I don't mean to step on anyone's toes or whatever," Skip says, taking a step backward.

"You didn't step on my toes," Hotch reassures him. "Besides, my feet are so frozen I wouldn't feel it even if you did."

Skip grins a little. "Okay then. I said my bit." He nods back the way they came. "Now I gotta check on Malark."

With that, Muck walks off.

Hotch considers Skip Muck on his way to Reid. Muck is easily as popular as Luz with the men, maybe more so. Aaron's never seen so many selfless men in his entire life. He's exceedingly thankful he ended up with men of this caliber by his side.

He finds Reid curled in the bottom of their foxhole. It looks like he's holding a purple blanket. Hotch drops in beside him.

"Reid?"

Reid ignores him.

Hotch sighs. "I know you're faking. You snore when you sleep."

"Go away," Reid whispers.

"When I can sit here and relax with my friend and former student? No thanks."

"Please." Reid's voice is thick and dark, the sound of the mud beneath them.

"Why?"

"I just...I want to be alone for a little while."

"And I want an eight-ounce rib eye with a baked potato and sour cream. I don't think either of us are going to get our wish," Hotch says gently.

Reid turns his head, glares hard at Aaron.

Spencer's glare is impressive, but Hotch has been on the receiving end of one of Johnny Martin's looks. Reid's pales in comparison.

Hotch shakes his head. "You're going to have to do better than that."

The anger melts from Reid's face. He gives Hotch a beseeching look. "I don't think I can do this."

Hotch firmly believes Reid can do anything if he put his mind to it. He could easily become a doctor, a scientist, a lawyer. Or an Army medic. "You can do whatever you want, Spencer."

"That's just it," Reid says miserably, "I don't _want_ to be here." He snatches up one of the branches from the dirt, bends it back and forth.

Hotch shrugs. "Neither do I."

Reid's voice is quiet, but Aaron can hear the accusation. "You signed up, Hotch."

"Not because I want to be here. I feel like--like I _need_ to be here. There's a difference."

"That's semantics," Reid snaps.

"No, that's how I feel," Hotch says evenly. "Feelings aren't right or wrong, Spencer. They just are. You can't do an empirical study of my feelings and declare them invalid just because you don't agree with them."

"Your guilt isn't going to bring Sean back."

The words hang in the air between them. Reid's always talking about World War I and that damn book. For the first time Hotch can see a similarity between then and now. Spencer's words infect the foxhole like poison.

Hotch doesn't want to argue, but he can't help himself. "And your guilt isn't going to get you back home to Mommy."

More silence.

Aaron looks up at the circle of ruddy pink sky above them. He can see the faint fingernail of the moon.

Reid's branch finally snaps. He throws the pieces down, puts his head in his hands. "I'm--I'm sorry."

"So am I."

Reid picks up the scarf, balls it up in his hands. "I just...I just don't understand how your being here helps Sean."

"It doesn't," Hotch admits. "It helps me. I couldn't save him, Reid. And that's hard for me to live with. But if I can save someone else's brother, someone else's son...I think...I think I could live with that."

Reid looks at Hotch for a long moment. Then he shifts closer to Aaron, puts a thin hand on his arm, leans his head against Hotch's shoulder. Hotch swallows down the pain in his throat, smiles into the top of Reid's head. Spencer Reid has just said more with this single gesture than some men say in their entire lifetime.

* * *

Skip keeps an eye on Don. Don's quieter than usual, but a lot of the guys are, after what happened. Skip knows it's not just the loss of Gonorrhea and Toye that's bothering Malark, buck the loss of Buck, too. They'd been pretty fuckin' close. It's a helluva thing.

Muck pokes Malarkey in the neck with his spoon. "Come on."

Don bats the spoon away, shoots Skip a dirty look.

"You look like an angry leprechaun when you do that," Skip remarks.

"You're gonna look like a guy with a fat lip if you don't knock it off with that goddamn spoon."

Skip tucks the spoon back into his lapel. "I'm sorry, Don. I just thought...well, I thought if we spooned it might cheer you up."

Don scowls. It's an epic scowl. A thing of beauty, really. Don drops his head into his hands, groans. "That's it, you're no longer my friend. Get the fuck away from me, Muck."

Muck pulls a sad face. Takes out the Lucky Strikes he pilfered from Luz. "Huh. Guess I'll just have to smoke these with Penk then."

"For Chrissakes, Skip. You drive me nuttier than a fruitcake." Malark makes a _gimme_ gesture. "Hand one over."

"Aww, I don't hafta drive you nowhere, Malark. You were nutty the day I met you."

Malark lights his smoke after a few tries, takes a long drag. Skip doesn't let on that he knows, but Malark's hands have been shaking all afternoon. It makes Skip nervous. He's not usually a nervous guy. The war's no picnic, that's for damn sure, but he's getting by. Mostly because of Malark and Penk. Christ, he can't even _think_ about losing either one of them.

And now there's that new kid, Reid, to worry about.

Skip pushes the anxiety out of his mind, goes back to harassing Don. "You wanna play chess?"

"No."

"I could steal Shifty's cards."

"No." Pause. Then: "He'd probably shoot you."

"We can ask Houdini to do some magic."

"Yeah?" Don blows a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. "You think he can magic us the hell outta here?"

Skip considers. "I guess anything's possible. But the real Houdini probably coulda. Done that metamorphosis trick. You and me go in the box and viola, we trade places with Peacock."

That earns Skip a laugh. "Now _that'd_ be somethin'."

They're standing in line for chow. It's bean soup again. _Cold_ bean soup. Joe ladles a spoonful into their cups.

They walk shoulder to shoulder toward Reid. "Just pretend its Vichyssoise," Muck suggests.

Malark makes a disgusted sound. "Screw that, I'm having trouble pretending it's food."

Reid's sitting on an overturned ammo crate, morosely spooning soup into his mouth. A purple scarf is looped around his neck. Muck gestures to it with his cigarette. "That's regulation."

Spencer looks up from his soup. "So's your spoon."

Skip sniffs disdainfully, then looks down at the most useful utensil ever invented. "I'll have you know this here is a medal, Doc. The Distinguished Service Spoon, awarded for bravery in the face of constant, adverse eating conditions." Skip lowers his voice, speaks confidentially. "It's awarded only very rarely."

"Hey," Joe bellows irritably, "I heard that."

"You're a prince among men, Joe" Skip shoots back cheerfully. He pulls up a square of snow and hunkers down.

Don drops down next to him. "Seriously," Don asks, "where'd you get the scarf? You gotta girl back home?"

"Can we put in requests?" Skip holds up his hands. "I could use some new mittens." Pause. "And an afghan. Oh, and my favorite color is yellow."

"I'm fine with blue or green," Don adds helpfully.

Reid's mouth twists into grimace. "I don't have a girl, I have a _friend_ who happens to be a girl. And she knits. She knitted me a scarf. End of story."

Skip leans forward. "I hate to tell you, but truthfully? That was a pretty shitty story. Try again, only this time, can you add a bear?" He snaps his fingers. "Or how about a werewolf?"

"Oooh," Don says, clearly approving Skip's brilliance, "that's good."

Muck beams. "Isn't it?" He chuckles, pats Reid's knee. "Okay, okay, I'll give you a break. It doesn't have to be a story. A fable or anecdote will do."

Reid holds up his spoon. "If I give you this, will you stop talking?"

"I doubt it, but it never hurts to try."

The three of them look at each other for a moment, then break into laughter.

Don rubs his eyes, grinning. Reid wipes his mouth, the smile still visible behind his hand. Skip beams. He loves making his friends laugh. There's nothing better. No-thing. And best of all, when Don slurps down a spoonful soup, his hand isn't shaking.

When their mess kits are empty, Skip hands out the after-dinner cigarettes. He offers one to Reid, but the doc shakes his head. Skip pats his pockets; he's got a frozen stick of Wrigley's somewhere, that counts as dessert. He finds it, holds it out to Spencer. That, the kid takes.

"Okay," Skip says to the other two men. "Look at it this way. It's a fuckin' shame what happened today. But Bill and Joe? They're not dead. They're the opposite of dead. They're on their way home to the land of extra blankets, electricity, and indoor plumbing. That's not a bad thing. You know those guys are tough. They can deal with anything. _Anything._ Losin' a leg?" Muck exhales noisily. "Pffft. That's nothin'.

"And Buck? He'll be okay too. He can get his feet fixed up, get a transfer, whatever the fuck he wants." Skip looks at Don. "You get that, right? Buck's off the front line," he says, lowering his voice. "That's a good thing."

Don nods, eyes down. He's blinking hard. Skip feels a rush of affection for his friend, throws an arm around his shoulder. "Besides, you always got me. How the fuck can anybody feel sad when I'm around?"

Malarkey laughs. It sounds a little forced, but he's trying, so Skip gives him points for that. He's a great guy, that Malark.

Don gives Skip a playful punch in the arm. "You even _think_ about leaving me here and I'll scoop your fuckin' guts out with that spoon."

"I'm gonna have Houdini's friend-who's-a-girl-but-not- _his_ -girl stitch that lovely little sentiment on a pillow. I think that'll make the ol' foxhole nice and homey."

Neither man laughs at Skip's wit. Philistines.

Skip tries a final time. "Come on, you guys. You can say they're in a better place and actually mean it for once."

Don looks thoughtful at that. "Huh. You might actually be right about that one."

" _Might_?" Muck scoffs. "Please."

"I know what you're saying," Reid says softly. "And I appreciate it." He rubs his dark eyes with one fist. "I just don't know how you guys do it."

"Do what?" Don asks. He pulls off his helmet, itches his head. His red hair sticks up in all directions. It's greasy, the red so dull it's nearly brown.

Skip cleans his spoon in the snow, wipes it dry on his ODs. Then he proceeds to poke at Malark's hair with it. He thinks maybe he can sculpt it into a sort of mohawk.

" _Skip_ ," Don says loudly. "Don't make me take away your spoon. Cuz you know I will."

"Christ," Muck laments. "You're a cranky bastard."

"And you're an annoying one. Now let the guy talk."

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Skip sweeps the spoon toward the doc. "Pray continue."

Reid looks dubious, but finishes his thought. "I don't get how to go from joking like this, to--" He stops. He leans back on the crate, steeples his fingers. Christ. It looks like he's about to give a lecture. "It's like what Erich Maria Remarque said in--"

"Okay, I'm gonna have to stop you right there," Skip says, holding up the spoon. "A quote from _All Quiet on the Western Front_ is not the way to improve anybody's mood."

Houdini looks surprised. "You've read the book?"

Skip sighs. "I've read that book, plus a one or two more. Maybe three. My brain might not be as chock full of genius as yours, but I _can_ read."

Reid looks instantly mortified. "Oh, I didn't mean--I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to imply that you didn't, or couldn't read." He twists his hands into the bottom of his scarf.

"Don't worry," Don mock whispers, "I was surprised to find out he could read, too."

"Ha, ha. All I'm sayin' is, if _All Quiet on the blah blah_ is your favorite book, you need to look a little harder. You need something that's more fun, more...I dunno, upbeat."

Malark and Houdini give him a look.

Reid asks first. "Like what?"

Skip grabs his tin cup, holds it out toward the doc. He tries to look pathetic and hungry, which sadly, is pretty fuckin' easy. "Please sir, may I have some more?"

Malark stares at him like he's just gone crazy. Silly man. Skip's pretty sure he caught the crazy the day he signed up for the Paratroops. Or when he swam the Niagara.

Houdini blinks at Skip, then smiles. He pokes the air with an index finger. "Oh, I know! _The Parish Boy's Progress_!"

Skip frowns. The Parish Boy's _what_?

"Uh, more commonly known as _Oliver Twist_ " Reid adds quickly.

"I think we read that in school," Don says dubiously.

"Man, I loved that book," Skip sighs. He thinks of all the times he dressed up in his dad's too-big suit coats, a broken pocket watch tucked in his pocket, a lipstick beard on his chin. He spent a whole summer trying to pick the little pink wallet out of his mother's purse. It drove her batty.

"You're telling me you think _Oliver Twist_ is happier than _All Quiet on the Western Front_?" Ried holds up a hand, ticks various themes off on his fingers. "There's a starving orphan, poverty, abusive adults, attempted murder, actual murder--" he starts on his other hand, "alcoholism, prostitution--."

"Yeah, yeah," Skip interrupts. "That's real sad. _But_ , Oliver gets to be a pickpocket _and_ he gets a nice aunt _and_ he gets adopted by Mr. Brownlow and lives happily ever after. Plus, _Oliver Twist_ automatically wins cuz nobody gets gassed."

Don looks at the doc. "He's got a point."

Houdini shakes his head, like he can't believe what he's hearing. "That's--that's not a point."

"You know," Skip admits to Don, "there was a time I'd have sold my sister to be a part of Fagin's gang."

"I was more into Tarzan and Bomba the Jungle Boy," Don says dreamily. "Can you imagine living in the jungle and swinging around on vines? Man, that's almost as good as jumpin' out of an airplane."

Houdini has such a look of horror on his face that Skip bursts out laughing. "I'm thinking Doc here ain't much for swinging on vines. Not an outdoor type, huh?"

"Then what the fuck are you doing out here?" Don asks with a goofy grin.

Jesus, Skip loves that grin. He looks up at the stars, sends a good thought toward Bill and Joe, his sister Ruth. This, right here? Is the life. It's moments like this that make all the shit worthwhile. Sure, the war's fucking terrible, but not _that_ terrible, because Skip gets to be with his best friend every single day. And what could be better than that?

* * *

Hotch hands Reid his morning coffee.

Reid takes it absently, offers a vague "thank you." He's reading Penelope's letter for the ninth time. He doesn't need to read it, of course. He knows the letter by heart, he could recite it verbatim the first time he read it. But he likes to look at her flowery handwriting, the little smiley faces she draws in the margins. He likes to rub his thumb over the pen indentations in the paper. Looking at the familiar backward slant of Garcia's writing is like listening to her voice. The letter is in blue ink, the smiley faces are in red. Across the top of the page is a large, lopsided sketch of a helmet with a big red cross on the side. Every time Reid looks at that helmet he smiles. He can picture her drawing it, eyes narrowed in concentration, tongue between her teeth.

God, he misses her.

Aside from his mother and Hotch, Penelope is the closest thing he has to family. She's the sister he's never had, but always wanted.

"What's Garcia have to say?" Hotch seats himself on the edge of the foxhole next to Reid.

Reid looks up, still smiling. "Want me to read it to you?"

Hotch nods eagerly. "I'd like that. I miss that kid. She was my favorite student."

Reid lifts his eyebrows in consternation.

Aaron backpedals. "After you of course."

Reid smirks. "Of course." He takes a sip of the coffee, makes a face. It tastes like hot rainwater flavored with dirt. "Ugh."

"Good, isn't it?"

"I miss real coffee," Reid says wistfully.

"I miss Garcia, so read already."

"Okay. Here goes." Reid makes a big production of clearing his throat.

" _Dear Marvelous Medic,_ Reid can feel the blush creep up his neck, but he keeps reading. _I hope you're doing okay. I also hope you're doing good, great, or even fantastic. I miss you a crazy amount. More than I can possibly say. Mostly because this pen is running out of ink. Everything is dull and boring without you. Of course, it was dull and boring with you as well, but I liked the way you could reach stuff on the top shelf of my pantry. Just kidding. We both know sometimes you couldn't reach those crackers. Just kidding again!_

_Seriously, I hope the war isn't too horrible or scary. I wish I could be there with you. I'd teach those Army boys that olive doesn't need to be quite so drab. I hope you spend all your time handing out lemons because rickets and scurvy are the most serious things you have to deal with. What I really hope, is, by the time you get this letter the war's already over. My fingers are crossed. Not right now though, because I'm writing this letter._

_I have no idea where you are. That feels so weird, not knowing where you are, beyond "somewhere in Europe." I looked at a map the other day, and jeezly crow, there's a lot of countries over there. I don't suppose you're on a beach in Spain (wearing a giant floppy hat so you don't burn your pretty girl skin) instead of a foxhole?_

_Speaking of pretty girls, I figured something out this morning. I was trying to decide if you were Bob Hope and I was Bing Crosby on the crazy road to adventure, or vice-versa. Then I realized I'm the funny, witty one who can sing and dance, and you're the tall, skinny brunette with a pretty face. That means I get to be Bob Hope_ and _Bing Crosby and you're Dorothy Lamour. Who says I need Professor Hotchner around to have actual insight?_

Hotch looks up from cleaning his M-1. "Huh. Rude."

Reid snorts. "At least she didn't call you a girl." He takes another drink of the horrible coffee and continues. _I've been reading the papers. There are all kinds of stories about the "Battered Bastards of Bastogne." I really hope you're not there. But since I don't want you to be anywhere near Belgium, I figure that's probably where you are. The upside is, now I can call you a bastard and say I mean it as a compliment. Ha ha._

_Okay, time to wrap this up. I had Jennifer take a picture of me with my new glasses. Keep it in your pocket at all times. You know how there are stories about pocket Bibles stopping bullets? I believe my photo is so awesome, it will do the same. But just in case the Nazis have invented some kind of evil anti-awesome device, I would appreciate it if didn't go anywhere near actual bullets. Thank you._

_Lastly, you probably noticed the lovely scarf. I don't know if you're allowed to wear it since it's not boring, ugly, or green, but here's hoping. I wore it for a few days before sending it to you, so please enjoy the complimentary Penelope perspiration._

_You're my hero, Reid. Never forget that, okay? And not just because of the top shelf thing. Hurry up and come home because I miss you. And I'm really frigging bored._

_Love,  
Penelope_

_P.S. I went to see your mom last week. She didn't remember who I was, but she was in a good mood. I told her I was your friend and she talked about you for almost ten minutes. She'll be okay, Spencer. You just take care of yourself._

_P.P.S. If you're reading this to Prof. Hotch, please tell him his class was a giant snooze and he looked funny in a suit._

Hotch laughs. "I do not look funny in a suit." He glances at Reid, a little too casual. "Do I?"

"You like fine. Garcia's just being Garcia. I mean, it's not like I really look like Dorothy Lamour."

Hotch runs a rag over the barrel of the rifle, ominously silent.

"Hotch," Reid prompts.

Aaron grunts. "Huh?"

Reid sighs. He does _not_ look like the girl from _The Road to Morocco_. When he writes back he's going to tell Penelope she looks like--like, well. He'll figure out something suitable by the time he starts the letter.

Roe walks up, nods a greeting. "Doc Reid."

Reid nods back. "Doc Roe."

Roe's face is somber, but his eyes smile. "How you doing?"

"Okay," Reid says, returning Garcia's letter to its envelope. "How about you?"

"Not too bad, not too bad." Roe worries at his lip, squints up at the bright sky. "You think we'll get snow today? Seems too cold for more snow, but Webb's bound and determined we're gonna get more."

"Is that a problem?" Hotch asks, suddenly interested. "You hear something?"

"There's a rumor goin' 'round we might get hit tonight. Guys are tryin' to get ready."

Reid's fragile spirits fall. He sighs, reaches for his medic bag. "Do you need supplies?"

"I do. And so do you. How much you got left?"

Reid counts bandages. Between the recent shellings and the occasional soldierly mishap, his supplies have dwindled precariously since the day he arrived.

"I'm down to three bandages and I don't have any tourniquets. I have two morphine syrettes. You should take one." Reid hands Roe one of the small boxes.

"Thanks. I'm gonna get a ride to the BAS, see what I can get my hands on. I'll bring back as much as I can, along with Zimmerman. If nothin' else, I'll bring back strips of sheets." Eugene's face hardens. "Those work just fine."

Reid knows what's coming next. If Roe's going begging in town, Reid's going begging to second battalion. He doesn't really mind. At least it's something to do. Maybe all that walking will warm him up.

"Easy Company don't got shit," Gene says. "I don't think Fox is much better. But Dog might have some morphine and aspirin, which is what we really need."

Reid slings his medic bag over his shoulder, ties his scarf, adjusts his helmet. "Got it."

"I'll meet up with you this afternoon and we can divvy up."

"Okay." Reid pauses. "Good luck, Gene. Be careful."

"You too." Gene gives Reid an gentle slap on the arm. He walks off, slogging through the snow. Abruptly, Roe turns back. "Hey, Reid?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch out for the line. No falling in German foxholes, okay?"

"Sure thing," Reid calls back. To Hotch he says, "German foxholes? What's he talking about?"

"I just listen to his accent, not what he actually says," Hotch replies, completely unhelpful.

Spencer checks his pockets, makes sure he has a few K ration bars. He also has one of the unbreakable, unmeltable, uneatable D ration chocolate bars. They're like trying to gnaw on chocolate-scented cement. What he wouldn't give for some French chocolate. Or a good old Hershey's.

Reid considers asking Hotch to come along. Or maybe Muck and Malark. He thinks better of it. If they really are going to get hit, the guys'll be busy cleaning rifles, zeroing weapons, reinforcing foxholes. Reid's glad to get away from that for a while.

"See you later," Spencer says.

"Watch yourself," Aaron tells him, "I hear there are Germans out here."

Spencer waves Aaron's words away with one hand and stomps off. Well, he doesn't actually stomp off because the snow is up to his knees and it's impossible to stomp. Especially when his feet are frozen solid. But if he _could_ stomp, that's what he'd be doing.

As he heads out of camp, the guys call to him, wave.

"Hey, Houdini!"

"Hiya, Doc!"

"Mornin' Reid."

"Seen Hinkel?"

Reid doesn't know who Hinkel is, but he's sure it's some inside joke he's not privy too. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. But here, unlike at school, Reid doesn't mind. These jokes are harmless, well-meant. There's never any malice. The men of Easy Company have accepted Reid as one of their own.

Spencer's been here almost two weeks now, and it still surprises him these soldiers seem to like him, respect him, even. It's enough to make Reid laugh. Not once did he _ever_ except to find friendship or acceptance in the Army. Maybe Garcia, Hotch, and his mother aren't his only family after all.

Reid stops by Muck's foxhole, shows him the new trick he's been working on. He can make Skip's spoon disappear by letting it slide down his sleeve, then, when he shakes Skip's hand he transfers it to Muck's sleeve. When Muck drops his arm, the spoon falls right into his hand. Skip yells so loud, nearly a dozen guys tell him to shut up.

"That is fucking amazing!" Skip beams. "I know it's just sleight of hand, but I love it." He elbows Penk. "I feel like I'm at the fuckin' circus!"

Penkala pokes Reid's sleeve. "You got any cotton candy in there?"

Reid grins. "Sorry, I'm fresh out."

Penkala gives a dejected sigh. "Figured as much."

Reid heads out of camp, good spirits restored. He has a general idea where D Company is located. His boots crunch through the snow, icicles hang from tree branches like ornaments. He walks as fast as he can without tiring himself out, fast enough to work up a sweat. Garcia's scarf really does help keep him warm. Maybe she can knit him some socks.

He's been walking for at least fifteen minutes. Spencer looks over his shoulder at the trail of footprints he's left behind. The snow and fog make for slow going, but any minute he should--

He should--

There's a butterfly on that tree.

_Impossible._

A Monarch butterfly sits on the branch, regal, like she's holding winter court. Right in front of him. It makes no sense because Monarchs live primarily in North America, New Zealand and Australia. They migrate to the warmer climates of Mexico and California. Monarch butterflies are rarely found Western Europe, and never in winter.

The butterfly's wings move. Reid feels a strange sense of deja vu. He thinks of Paul Bäumer's butterfly collection, the colorful wings pinned beneath flat glass shrouds. The end of the 1930 movie showed Paul's hand reaching for a butterfly just before he was killed.

Reid's hand reaches now.

His medic bag slips from his shoulder to his elbow.

He plucks the butterfly from the branch. It's not a Monarch butterfly, it's not a butterfly at all. Reid is holding a dead leaf. It's a faded orange-brown, stiff and fragile in the cold.

Spencer stares down at it, crushes it beneath his numb fingers. The bag slips off his arm, drops into the snow beside his left foot.

Instantly, he's hurtling through the air, snow and dirt pelting his face. His ear drums are crushed, a baseball bat connects with his foot. He has no time to think about anything--not butterflies or mines--except that he's airborne, a real paratrooper at last. He sees the sky, the shattered ground, the tree, and then--nothing.

* * *

Reid gasps, opens his eyes. He's on his back. He can feel cold fingers of snow poking into his neck, his hair, his wrists. A man stands over him with a rifle.

Reid's vision is blurry. He's lost his glasses. His head pounds. Someone has hit him, _is_ hitting his skull with a hammer again and again.

Despite his blurry vision, the agony in his head, the blood in his mouth, Reid knows he's looking at a German soldier. He knows he's about to die.

Spencer doesn't know how he got here. He was walking to D Company for supplies, but found death instead. Did he cross the line? He gags on the blood on his mouth. Has he already been shot? Did he step on a mine?

The soldier looks down at him curiously. He isn't much of a soldier. He's younger than Reid. He looks nineteen, twenty at the most. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He looks as scared as Reid feels.

The boy speaks, but Reid can't hear him. His head rings with the sound of clanging metal. His head rings in time with the pain.

Spencer is afraid to die, but what he feels most, above the fear and pain, is an overwhelming disappointment. To know that he will never see his mother again, that she'll never know what happened to him, is too much. To know he'll never again see Garcia's smile is more than he can bear.

This boy has no reason to kill him. They are the same. They each have mothers, fathers, dreams. Reid starts talking. His words are only a faint buzz, a vibration in his throat. Reid isn't trapped in a foxhole with a dying German, but it's close enough. This isn't goodbye, only the truth. He recites Paul Bäumer's quote. The words taste liked pennies and salt.

"Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us--" a coughing fit racks him. Spencer chokes, turns his head, spits bright blood onto blinding snow.

The young German is still standing there, wide-eyed, listening. Reid is grateful. He licks his cracked lips, keeps going. "--that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, a-and that we have the same...the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony. Forgive me, comrade, how could you be my enemy?"

Reid looks up at the boy, whispers "comrade" a final time. Then, he closes his eyes. He waits to die.

The pain wakes him.

He jerks awake, shivering, his head burning. The boy sits beside him, holding his hand. Reid stares at him, uncomprehending.

The boy says something, but the words have no sound. It's like listening to snow. There are a thousand bees in Reid's head. He lifts his free hand weakly, points to his ear. "I can't...I can't hear you."

The soldier shrugs, shakes his head.

Reid closes his eyes, concentrates. "Ich kann Sie nicht hören."

The boy smiles. "Ah." He lowers his mouth to Reid's ear, his breath is warm against Spencer's skin. Spencer can hear the boy's words very faintly through the buzzing. They sound very far away, a hundred miles at least, like they're coming toward him through a network of underground tunnels.

Through trenches.

It takes a week for Reid to translate the words to English. "You stepped on a mine. I saw you fly in the air like a bird."

Oh. A mine. He wonders idly how badly he's hurt. He's too tired to think about it. He wants to sleep, but the boy asks a question.

"You are a medic?"

"Yes."

The boy pulls off his pack, digs through it. He offers Reid his canteen. "Drink."

Spencer tries to sit up, fails. Pain explodes in his head like a shell. _Are_ they being shelled? He doesn't know.

"Ich bin Tobias," the boy says. He slides an arm beneath Reid's neck, helps him drink. The water soothes his throat, quiets a little of the hammering in his head.

"Ich bin Spencer," Reid replies.

Tobias pulls a rectangular packet from his bag, opens it. Inside is a bandage, sulfa powder, morphine. The American medic is being treated by the German soldier. It's very funny. It's very, very funny, but all Reid can do is cry soundlessly. Nothing makes sense.

Tobias bandages Reid's head. The pain sends Reid away. When he comes back, Tobias is jabbing him with the morphine. "No," Reid says, trying to move. "Nein, nein."

Tobias nods. "Ja." He jabs Reid again, and the pain floats away like a cloud. The cold recedes.

Tobias stands, picks up his rifle and pack. "Farewell, Ami."

"Wait," Reid calls. "Why...why did you help me?"

Tobias smiles and he is beautiful. "Why not?"

* * *

It's snowing. Not much.

Only a little.

Great white flakes fall, as big as feathers. Reid watches them. They whisper against his face and hands. He feels good. Sleepy. A small part of his brain is trying to get his attention, it's nattering on about morphine and hypothermia and the possibility of a concussion. Reid's not particularly interested.

The snow is surprisingly heavy, it presses against his eyelids. He drifts back into sleep.

His mother is standing barefoot in the snow. Her short, blond hair is unwashed, her face is older than her years, lined with worry. She wears a white hospital gown, a pink bathrobe hangs loose over her thin frame.

"Spencer," she calls. "Spencer, get up." She kneels besides him, pulls at his hand.

Reid wants to move. He wants to please her, make her happy, but he can't. His whole life, he's wanted to make her happy, but she's beyond happiness now, she's gone, impenetrable. Still, when she asks, Reid tries to get up. He's frozen, a lead soldier left in the snow. He tries to move his hand, his arm, his leg.

The only thing that moves is the pain. It wakes, stretching bigger, bigger, inside his head. It ripples, spins, arcs like lightning.

"I don't know what to do," Diana says. She's weeping. "Please don't leave me, Spencer." She's sobbing now, and Reid's chest feels too small for his ribs. "Please."

Paul Bäumer kneels beside Diana Reid. His face is pale, his eyes the color of despair. His helmet sits crooked on top of disheveled brown hair. Reid wants to reach up, push the helmet straight.

Paul says, "A hospital alone shows what war is." His voice is is the sound of wind in the trees.

Reid wants to tell Paul he isn't going to the hospital, he doesn't need a dying room. He's going to die right here, in the snow. He's made his peace with that.

Paul is disgusted by Reid's thoughts. He tips his head toward Diana. "Do you think your mother is at peace?"

_She doesn't even know where I am._

"She knows more than you think."

Paul leans down, attaches something to each side of Reid's head. They feel like....electrodes. No. Reid wants to move now. He'll get up. He will. Paul forces a stick between Reid's teeth. "Bite down," he whispers, and pulls the switch.

Reid screams. He bolts upright and the pain is so bad the world spins, goes gray. He vomits into the snow, coughing up spit and blood while he trembles violently. His head is full of thunder and light, but it has nothing to do with ECT. He was dreaming. He was dreaming, that's all. His mother isn't here.

She's in New York.

Reid's in Belgium. Alone. Freezing to death.

No, not alone. Paul Bäumer is watching him. He stands a few feet away in his dated uniform, hands in his pockets. Reid puts a hand to his head. It roars like the ocean. He can feel the makeshift bandage. The empty syrettes lie in the snow. Bits of dirt and branches are everywhere. So are cloth pieces of his medic bag. Reid has a concussion. He is hallucinating. He needs to move.

He needs to get up.

He needs his helmet.

He needs his glasses.

He needs Hotch.

Reid squints at the snow. His hands are numb. He's shivering, shaking so hard his breath comes in strangled gasps. The sense of peace, of goodness, is gone.

Spencer crawls slowly, painfully, forward. His side hurts. He lifts his jacket and shirt with stiff, uncooperative fingers. A shining piece of shrapnel the size of a dime sticks out of his skin. He blinks at it stupidly, pulls his uniform back down. That's not so bad. He's conscious, he's moving, he's lucid. That's good. He's not sure why a fictional soldier is keeping him company, but he'll worry about that after he has his glasses.

There's a small crater where the mine was. That's where Reid starts his search. He wastes precious minutes worrying about additional mines hiding beneath the snow. Eventually he decides he's likely to die out here regardless, and death via mine is faster than hypothermia.

He spends years in the snow. Decades. His hands are red and raw, the cracks along his knuckles turn the snow pink with blood. His side aches. His left eye is swollen shut. He has no idea what time it is. Time has stopped. Maybe the war is over. It ended months ago, and no one bothered to tell him. The war is over, and that's why Tobias helped him.

Reid finds the glasses about ten feet from his helmet. They're bent, the wire frames twisted. Spencer straightens them as best he can, puts them on. The trees sharpen into focus.

So does Paul.

"You're not real," Spencer whispers. "You're in my head. Y-you're a concussion."

Paul lifts his rifle, rests it against his shoulder. A bayonet is fixed to the end. "I'm just as real as you," he says. And then he's gone.

Reid holds up his hand, looks at it. His hand is still here. So is the rest of him. Good. That's good. He crawls to his helmet, tucks it under his arm. He leans his shoulder against the trunk of a tree, pushes himself up, slowly, slowly.

He manages one staggering step. And then another. He can still see his earlier trail of footprints. They're faint, half buried in fresh snow, but it's enough to get him back to Easy Company.

He can do this. Hotch believes in him. Garcia believes in him. Reid stumbles, puts a hand to his jacket, frantically patting the fabric. Her letter and photo. Please let them be there, please, _please_. They aren't. His pocket is empty. He checks the other pocket, barely breathing, and there's the edge of the envelope against his finger. He almost sobs with relief. Penelope's still with him. He pats the pocket gently, relieved, when he feels something else. A small rectangular shape.

Reid grits his teeth and fishes the box out. Small German words march around the box. Two of the words are _Bayer Company_. A third is _morphine._ Spencer looks at the box for a long time. Apparently Tobias went through his pockets, looked at his correspondence. Left him a parting gift.

Spencer stands there, shaking, sweating. He recalls that feeling of peace, of safety. Of relief. He wants that again. Reid makes a noise deep in his throat and shoves the box back in his pocket. It's a noise of despair, or disappointment, or both. He doesn't need the morphine. He's okay. But it doesn't hurt to keep it just in case. Not for him. One of the guys might need it.

It's not for him.

 

  



	4.   Though I Am in Still Water 4/5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during _The Breaking Point._ You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.

  
**Written for the Eagle's Nest Crossover Challenge.**

**Title:**   Though I Am in Still Water 4/5  
 **Author:** [](http://buffyaddict13.livejournal.com/profile)[**buffyaddict13**](http://buffyaddict13.livejournal.com/)    
 **Fandom:** Band of Brothers / Criminal Minds crossover  
 **Rating:** R for language and drug use  
 **Total Words:** ~33,000  
 **Characters/Pairing:** Gen, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Skip Muck, Carwood Lipton, Don Malarkey, Roy Cobb, Bill Guarnere, Joe Toye, Lewis Nixon, Babe Heffron, Eugene Roe, Derek Morgan, Alex Penkala, Dick Winters, George Luz, Don Hoobler, Lester Hashey, etc.  
 **Summary:** Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.  
 **Disclaimer** : I don't own the Band of Brothers book or miniseries. I also don't own Criminal Minds. In fact, I own nothing except my own addled imagination. I'm sad to be me.  
 **A/N 1:** This fic came about for two reasons. The first, is, I love Spencer Reid and decided I wanted to see him as a World War 2 medic. The second is, ~~I'm crazy~~ I thought maybe I could trick fans of Criminal Minds into watching Band of Brothers. *evil laugh* Note: This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during _The Breaking Point._ You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.  
 **A/N 2:** Info on [Criminal Minds](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Criminal_Minds) and [Band of Brothers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Band_of_Brothers_\(TV_miniseries\)) with pics and links to characters for those interested.  
 **A/N 3:** Thank you to [](http://users.livejournal.com/__kat__/profile)[**__kat__**](http://users.livejournal.com/__kat__/)  , [](http://degare.livejournal.com/profile)[**degare**](http://degare.livejournal.com/)  , and [](http://venacavarex.livejournal.com/profile)[**venacavarex**](http://venacavarex.livejournal.com/)  for the absolutely gorgeous artwork. I'll be sharing their pretties throughout the fic. Thank you! ♥

 

_"I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another, and in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another._  
~ Erich Maria Remarque, _All Quiet On The Western Front, Ch. 10_

 

 

Hotch threads a belt of ammo through the machine gun. He drops down behind the gun, rests his hands on his knees. So far there's no movement near Foy, but he'll be ready if there is.

Earl McClung's beside him, reading an old issue of _Dick Tracy_. McClung takes a drag on his cigarette, flips the page.

"Hey, Hotchner."

Nobody uses Hotch's full last name. The fact that Roe just did can't be a good sign. Hotch leans forward, sees Roe emerge from behind a copse of trees.

"What?"

"You seen Reid? He back yet?"

Hotch glances at his watch. Thirteen hundred hours. Reid's been gone nearly three hours. "I thought he was with you," Hotch says slowly.

"Nah, I just got back. Took longer than I thought, we hadda wait for the goddamn 82nd convoy." Roe shoves a hand through his hair, heaves a sigh. "So you ain't seen Reid since I left?"

"No." Hotch stands, heads for Muck's foxhole. "Eugene, I don't think he's here."

Roe grimaces. "Shit."

Skip, Don, Penk and Luz are all gathered in Skip's foxhole. Muck's telling some story about when he was a kid that has to do with a hornet's nest and the Niagara River.

"Skip." Hotch's tone stops the story immediately. Luz stops laughing. All four faces look at him.

Skip speaks around his cigarette. "What's wrong?"

"Any of you guys seen Reid?"

Skip rubs a hand over his jaw. He exchanges a look with Penk. "Not for a couple hours at least. He was headin' over to D Company."

"He never came back," Hotch says.

Luz, Muck and Malarkey immediately scramble out of the foxhole.

"No," Hotch points back toward CP. "You don't need to look for him. I'll go. But somebody should tell Winters we might have a man MIA, and track down Dike."

"Good luck with _that_ ," Luz mutters. Then: "I'll get Lip."

"You sure you don't want help?" Skip asks Hotch. He clearly wants to join the search.

"I'm sure. You should be here in case he gets back. If you see him, you tell him he's gonna get it good."

Gene levels a steady look at Hotch. "I'm comin' with you."

Hotch wants to protest, but he knows why Roe wants to come. Hotch doesn't pray much, but he makes up for lost time now. He hopes to God Reid doesn't need a medic.

It doesn't take long to find Reid's footprints once they're clear of camp. "Only one set," Roe points out.

Hotch doesn't reply. It's clear enough Reid left for Dog Company but never returned. At least not by the same route.

"I shoulda gone with him," Roe says. Regret sharpens his accent.

Hotch glares at the doc. " _I_ should have gone." Christ, what had he been thinking?

They walk in silence. The snow squeaks beneath their boots. Snowflakes fall. Dead leaves whisper. The air smells like frost and pine.

Roe rubs his nose. It's red with cold. "You know, D Company's short a medic. Maybe Speirs ordered Reid to stay and help a while."

Hotch scans the trees, the horizon, for any sign of his friend. Worry twists his gut.

"Maybe he got lost."

"Reid's no Boy Scout, but he's got a good sense of direction. He's better at geography than anyone I know."

"This ain't pickin' Luxembourg out on a map," Roe says shortly, "this is finding another company through an unfamiliar forest, in shitty weather, with a buncha Germans breathin' down our necks."

Hotch stops walking, glares at Eugene. "I thought you were trying to make me feel better."

"I ain't tryin' to make you anything. I'm trying to find Reid."

"Then let's try more walking, less talking."

Roe shrugs. "Fine."

Hotch pulls the collar of his jacket up. Fucking wind chill. They start walking again, this time in silence. Hotch holds his rifle at the ready, squinting through the endless snow. Reid has to be okay. Having Spencer here is like having a piece of home. Reid isn't just a student, or a friend, he's like a kid brother. Reid's not like Sean, because Sean never really depended on Hotch. Sean was self confident and easy going. Reid is neither. But he was getting there. And Aaron Hotchner's not about to let some war get in the way of Spencer's potential.

" _Hotch._ "

Aaron's been so busy thinking about Reid he's barely been looking for him. He glances up to see Roe running toward a figure in the snow. Oh, _shit_.

Reid's on his side, hands tucked between his knees. They can see exactly how far he's walked because one of his boots leaves a bloody print behind. He's got a bandage wrapped around his head. Beneath his coat, his OD jacket is stiff with blood.

"Oh shit, oh shit," Hotch babbles. "Reid, can you hear me? Reid, you okay? We've got you. You're okay." Aaron's hands grope at Reid's neck, searching for a pulse.

Roe shoves Hotch away. "Stop it. He's alive. He's shakin' enough to start an earthquake. Take off your coat, put it over him."

Hotch nearly dislocates his arm trying to get out of the wool coat. He lays it over Spencer. Reid opens his eyes. His glasses are crooked. Hotch grabs Reid's hand, rubs it between his own. "You're okay, Reid. You're okay."

Roe pulls out a lighter, holds it above Reid's face, peers into his eyes, looks under the bandage. "Reid? You hear me?"

Spencer's voice is barely a whisper, but it's there, it's _there_. Hotch rubs his mittened hand over his eyes. Thank God.

Reid's gaze slides over to Hotch. He smiles with cracked lips. "I knew you'd find me."

Roe snaps his fingers. "Hey Reid, look at me, okay? Look at me."

Reid rolls head until he's looking at Roe. "I'm sorry, Eugene."

"Sorry for what?" Gene asks, lifting Reid's shirt, feeling carefully around the shrapnel.

Spencer hisses in pain, tries to roll away. "No, no, no," Doc says quickly, "you gotta keep lookin' at me. You gotta stay awake."

"That...that hurts."

"Yeah, I bet it does," Roe soothes. His voice is calm and steady. He speaks like he's actually listening to Reid, like he gives a shit about Reid's rambling while he's trying to keep the kid alive. That's when Hotch realizes Eugene Roe is more than a medic, he's a man with a gift. He's a goddamn saint. Hotch is never going to snap at Roe again. Aaron would gladly kiss the doc right fucking now, right on his wind-burned cheek if he didn't think it would distract Roe from Spencer. And possibly get him a punch to the face.

"What're you sorry for, Reid?" Roe asks gently. "You got nothin' to be sorry for."

"I stepped on a mine."

Roe looks at Reid's boots, then at Hotch. "He got both his feet in those?"

Hotch slides over to check. The left boot is fine, but the right one is soaked in blood. There's a jagged hole in one side of the boot, but not the other. "Looks like he's got a piece of shrapnel stuck in his foot."

"Okay, you didn't step on a mine, Reid. If you did, your feet'd still be back there."

Reid frowns, his eyes roll. "I dropped my bag. I dropped my bag on a mine. Everything's gone. I didn't get any supplies. I didn't get any supplies and everything I had is gone." Reid's voice is frayed, it starts to unravel. "I'm sorry, Gene. I'm really sorry."

"Don't be sorry, it's fine. I'd rather have you in one piece than your kit. Can you stand?"

Reid nods. "I-I think so." His voice drops, as if he's ashamed. "If I have help."

"You got plenty a help. Okay, here we go. Hotch, put your arm like this." Roe slides an arm beneath Reid's armpit, around his back. Aaron does the same. "Yeah, good. Okay, on the count of three."

Hotch takes a deep breath.

"One...two... _three_."

They lift Reid in one smooth motion. He doesn't weigh anything at all. Jesus. Hotch pulls his coat so it covers Reid's shoulders.

"Can you walk?" Roe asks.

"Yeah. I can't feel my feet."

Roe barks a laugh. "Believe me, that aint' a bad thing right now. We're gonna walk slow, now. We got you."

The walk back takes forever. Reid shivers between them, but he remains upright. Hotch is soaked in sweat after a dozen steps. He's terrified he's going to accidentally step on Reid's wounded foot, accidentally knock him down.

Roe talks the whole way. He cajoles Reid, compliments him. He wheedles, bribes, threatens Spencer forward.

Reid's quiet most of the way, his face tight, teeth clenched in concentration. They stop every few feet. "You're doin' great," Roe says, patting Reid's cheek. "We're almost there. We can get you to the aid station."

"No," Reid says, his voice loud enough to make Hotch flinch. "No aid station, no hospital. I gotta stay with you. With Easy."

Eugene and Hotch exchange a look. "Well, we'll see what's what when we get back to camp."

"I just need to sleep," Reid says, petulance bleeding into his voice.

Roe huffs. "Yeah, you need more than that, buddy."

"I saw a butterfly," Reid says, petulance replaced by melancholy. "Only it wasn't a butterfly." He rubs his face, stumbles, rights himself. "Hospitals are where you go to die. My mom's in a hospital." He looks from Roe to Hotch. "Don't make me go to the hospital. Hospitals show what war is really like. That's what Paul says."

Hotch feels like he's been kicked in the gut. He doesn't know exactly what's wrong with Reid's mom, except she's mentally ill. ( _Crazy._ ) And hearing Reid talk like this, well. It makes him feel like punching somebody. New worries vie for Hotch's attention. Exactly how hard did Reid hit his head? What if his brain is--is messed up? Hotch squeezes his eyes shut for a long second. Reid's a genius, he can't have brain damage.

"Hotch."

Roe's looking at him, concerned. "He took a good knock to the head," Gene says quietly. "It's okay if he doesn't make sense. It doesn't mean anything." He offers Hotch a small smile.

Hotch clings to it.

Lipton and Muck emerge from the gloom. Lipton takes one look, picks up Reid's legs.

Reid protests. "Put me down! Lip, I can walk!"

Lip grins, walks backwards. "That's some coincidence, Reid, so can I. And right now, I'm gonna do your walking for you."

They half carry, half drag Reid, and within minutes he's lying beneath a shelter half. "Who's got a flashlight?" Roe demands.

Skip kneels down, shines it at Reid's head. Roe pulls off the bandage, and for the first time, Hotch sees the cut along Reid's temple. It's deep and ugly. Bits of bark glisten in the wound. Roe checks Reid's shrapnel wounds for a second time.

"How is he?" Hotch asks, as far from Reid's earshot as he can manage. "He gonna make it?"

"Yeah, but I gotta get him to the aid station. He needs stitches, the shrapnel removed. I'm a medic, not a surgeon. I can't do that here."

Reid shakes his head. "No. I want to stay here."

"Fuck that," Luz says amicably. "You gotta listen to the doc, Reid. Get yourself fixed up, then you can come back and tell us how much you missed us."

"How is he?"

Everyone turns to look at Winters. The Captain is crouched next to the shelter half, eyes on Reid. He looks tired. There's a cut on his neck, probably from shaving.

"I think he'll be okay. He's got a nice gash on his head, maybe a concussion. Shrapnel in the left flank and right foot. Don't look like either piece went in too far."

Winters leans toward Reid. "Spencer? How are you feeling?"

"I've felt better...sir."

The men chuckle nervously. Winters grins. "I bet you have. I know you don't want to go to the aid station, Spencer, but I'm giving you an order. You're going. We'll be here when you get back."

"Unless the war ends," Skip pipes up.

"Unless the war ends," Winters echoes dryly.

Skip, Malarkey and Luz get Reid to the jeep. They lay him on a stretcher mounted across the hood. It looks about as safe as dragging Reid behind the jeep in a mummy bag. There's a black driver behind the steering wheel. The guy better drive like he's carrying his mother _and_ her good china on that stretcher.

"Doc?"

Roe's busy fixing a tag to Reid's jacket. "Yeah?"

"Are you going with him?"

Roe shakes his head. "Nah. If we get shelled I wanna be here for the guys. Reid's on his own." He puts a hand on Hotch's arm, adds. "Just for now. He'll be okay."

Hotch rubs his nose. "Can I go with him? I mean, what if he has a seizure or something on the way? Don't concussions give you seizures, or convulsions or whatever?"

Roe sighs, shrugs. "Yeah, sure. But I don't think Houdini's gonna have a seizure." He gestures to the jeep. "But if you think you're gonna have one if you don't go with him, fine. I'll tell Lip, but you find him the minute you get back. And you're only there 'til Reid's settled."

Hotch grins, more than a little relieved. "Thanks, Doc."

"Yeah, yeah," Roe says, smiling.

Hotch jumps into the passenger seat, leans forward to pat Reid's hand. "Everything's gonna be okay."

Reid's eyes are closed. His face is pinched, his hands clenched. Hotch can see the pale veins beneath Reid's skin, the hard lines of his skull at his temples, his jaw. God, he looks so young.

"Hey, I know you," the driver says, all friendly like, and starts the jeep.

Hotch glances at him. There aren't exactly a lot of black guys in the Army. At least not around here. It's the same guy who drove them into Bastogne, what, 13 days ago? Christ, that was another lifetime. The guy's name is Eric. No, Derek.

Hotch isn't in the mood to talk. He nods curtly. "Yeah."

Morgan pulls the jeep onto the road. Hotch waits for him to drive faster, to put on some speed. He doesn't. Christ, he drives like a fucking grandma.

"Can't you go any faster?" Hotch finally asks. He's _this_ close to pushing Morgan out the door so he can drive.

Morgan nods pleasantly. "Sure. As long as you don't mind your friend bouncing off into that ditch over there." Derek lifts an eyebrow, regards Hotch thoughtfully. "I was kinda under the impression you wanted babyface here to reach the aid station without further injury."

Hotch glares at the dashboard, wishing swift death upon Derek Morgan.

"Look," Morgan says quietly, "I'm a pretty good driver. Between that doc and me, your friend'll get to the aid station okay."

Hotch lets himself relax slightly. "Uh, sorry," he finally says. "I didn't mean to bitch about your driving."

Morgan laughs. "Man, if I had a nickel for every white guy who apologized to me, I'd have--" Morgan purses his lips, like he's doing some complicated equation "--exactly one nickel."

Hotch grins in spite of himself. "You have to put up with a lot of shit?"

Morgan shrugs. "Don't we all." He nods toward Reid. "You two come in together, right? You friends?"

"Yeah. I'm--was--his college professor."

"Huh. What'd you teach?"

"Psychology."

"Whoa. Impressive." Morgan taps on the steering wheel with an index finger. "I was a police officer."

Hotch stares at the driver with new eyes. "Really? Where?"

"South Chicago. Thought it would prepare me for some of the shit I'd see here, but no."

"You've seen a lot of action?"

Morgan snorts. "Sure, if you count driving trucks all over the place action."

"You get us where where we need to be," Hotch says earnestly. "There's nothing wrong with that. We'd be lost without you." Aaron chuckles. "Literally."

Morgan flashes Hotch a brilliant smile. "Thanks, man."

There aren't many lights in Bastogne, but the windows of the aid station are bright and welcoming. "And here we are," Morgan says, pulling to a stop in front of the station. "Everybody present and accounted for."

Hotch slaps Morgan's shoulder. "Thank _you_."

* * *

When Reid wakes up he's lying a cot. There are men all around him. Men lying on cots like his, men lying on the floor, men propped against the wall. There are men wearing white coats, men with white armbands emblazoned with red crosses like the one he and Roe wear. There are nurses. Some with kind faces, some with stern. They are all beautiful because this is war, and they are women. An unexpected beauty in an ugly place.

The men on the cots moan. Some scream. The men in white coats and armbands move among the wounded, they check bandages, stitch wounds, treat trench foot and frost bite. They carry no weapons; they are armed with needles, stethoscopes, scalpels. With morphine.

Reid's head hurts, his side hurts, his foot _hurts._

He's at the aid station. There are many faces, but none are familiar. Reid closes his eyes, tries to stay calm. He tries to tell himself this is a good thing, that he can be evacuated to a hospital, get away from the front. Get away from the war. But even as he thinks it, he knows he would never leave Hotch or Eugene or Skip. The men of Easy Company depend on him.

He's still alive. So he has to go back. There's nothing Reid wants less. Despite his dread, the need to go remains. At last, Spencer understands Hotch's point of view.

Reid feels for his watch. It's still on his wrist. No one stole it while he was sleeping. He sits up slowly, carefully. His head feels as if it's full of ball bearings. As he moves, they slide from one side of his head to the other. They weigh him down, make his movements heavy, sluggish. He looks at his feet. His boots are gone. Reid's left foot is white, translucent marble. White indicates first degree frostbite. His right foot has a bandage wrapped around it. His foot feels like an anchor. Spencer drags it toward him, but the pain in his side forces him to stop.

"You should rest, Private Reid."

A doctor stands beside Spencer's cot. "You're a very lucky young man."

_Lucky._ The word feels like a slap. If Reid were lucky, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be in the war. His mother wouldn't be in a sanitarium. His father wouldn't have walked out on them. If Reid were _lucky_ the mine would have killed him so he wouldn't have to listen to this condescending idiot.

Reid's voice feels like it's spent the last month in a drawer, collecting dust. "Do I...do I have a concussion?"

"A mild one. We stitched your head up good as new. The shrapnel in your side punctured the muscle and came to rest right against your kidney." The doctor smiles, like he's the bearer of good news. "Again, very lucky."

"And my foot?"

"The shrapnel was stuck in the first metatarsal. It's a wonder it didn't break the bone. We removed it, patched you up. It'll hurt like a bitch, but as long as you stay off it, you'll make a full recovery."

"I can't stay off it," Reid tells him. "I'm a medic."

"Not right now you're not." A soldier screams on the other side of the room. "Get some rest," the doctor instructs, and hurries off.

One of the stern faced nurses is placing a compress on an injured man's forehead.

Reid calls to her, tentative. "Excuse me?"

She looks up.

"Is there a chance I could get a bowl of water and a wash cloth? Whenever you have a chance," he adds, "I'm, uh, happy to wait."

The nurse smiles, and instantly, she is kind. "Just let me finish up here, sweetie."

Reid smiles at the nurse's small endearment. Garcia calls him sweetie. So did his mother. The smile fades. He locks his hands together, fingers twisting nervously.

Spencer's cot faces the wall. He can see out a window, the frosted glass marked with a large X of tape. It's night. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, squints. There are no flashes in the sky, no misplaced stars that indicate shelling. He listens. There is no thunder. There is nothing but the sound of men's misery.

Is this what his mother hears at night? When she hears the voices, do they scream this loudly? Or do they mutter quietly, hopelessly, like the man in the next cot over?

"Here you go." The nurse places a metal bowl of water in Reid's lap. She hands him a clean rag and a square, chipped mirror. She has dark hair done up in a bun. "How's your pain?"

Reid thinks of the rectangular box in his jacket. His _jacket_. He looks around. The nurse seems to read his mind.

"Your belongings are under the cot."

"Thanks." He smiles weakly. The muscles in his face don't seem to be working right. "My pain is--"

_Unbearable._

_Constant._

_Oblivious to words._

_Untouched by medicine._

_Exhausting._

"--is fine," Reid manages. "I'm fine."

The nurse nods and Reid is left alone with the water. He cleans his face carefully, his neck, his arms. He rinses the cloth out, wipes at his armpits. The water is warm. Reid can't remember the last time he felt warm water on his skin. What he wouldn't give for an actual shower. Or better yet, a bath.

He leans over, sets the bowl on the chair next to his cot. He picks up the mirror, inspects his face. His left eyelid is red and angry, a deep purple rings the eye. He counts ten stitches along his temple. There are five in his side. Four in his foot. Nineteen _mild_ and _lucky_ stitches.

Spencer swings his legs over the side of the cot. The ball bearings roll in his head, the room tilts. He waits for it to settle. When it does, he reaches under the cot. His fingertips find the box, pull it out. There are his boots. And his uniform. He pulls his bloodstained t-shirt on, then his jacket. He lies the wool coat over himself like a blanket, puts the purple scarf beneath his head like a pillow.

Very faintly, he can feel the comfort of the little box against his chest. He closes his eyes.

He sleeps fitfully. His dreams are full of men who choke to death on their own blood, who cling to disembodied, mangled limbs like drowning sailors. He wakes periodically to find Tobias offering him a drink of water, only Tobias turns out to be the dark-haired nurse.

Reid wonders where Tobias is, if he's still alive. Does his mother know where he is, worry for him? If Tobias steps on a mine, will an American soldier be there to help him? Reid doesn't think so.

He dreams of Paul and Kat and Mueller. He dreams Paul sits at his bedside. He doesn't ask for Reid's boots. He sits quietly, a colored halo of butterflies around his head. Reid reaches for one. It's yellow and bright, the color of sunshine and childhood.

When Spencer wakes he is not holding a butterfly. He is holding a box which contains a syrette of morphine. Dawn presses her pale face to the window. Reid sits up slowly. His bones creak. He flicks a quick gaze to either side.

There are no nurses, no doctors, only wounded men.

Spencer tells himself he doesn't need the morphine. He knows this.

Spencer Reid knows a lot of things. He knows there are 168 prime numbers between 1 and 1,000. He knows convulsive therapy was introduced by an Hungarian neuropsychiatrist named Ladislas Meduna in 1934. He knows ECT no longer helps his mother. He knows the main schools of thought on criminology are classical, positivist, Italian, Lacassagne, sociological and Chicago. He knows the term "criminology" was coined by an Italian law professor named Raffaele Garofalo as _criminologia_ in 1885.

Reid knows morphine was first discovered as an alkaloid by Herr Freidrich Wilhelm Sertürner in 1804. Sertürner named his discovery after Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams. Reid knows Morpheus is the son of Hypnos, the god of sleep. He also knows that the only Greek god who visits Bastogne, Belgium with any regularity is Ares.

Spencer knows morphine is highly addictive, that so many Civil War veterans became dependent that morphine addiction was called "The Soldier's Disease." Reid is simply following in the shuffling footsteps of his forebearers. Reid knows he's already addicted, that he wants ( _needs, craves_ ) more, that desire has nothing to do with his physical pain.

He knows enough to know better.

But the morphine makes him feel warm and peaceful, like afternoon sunlight in June. It makes him feel like everything he's ever done is right. It takes away the guilt with a single prick like a newer, better religion. It makes him feel like his mother remembers him. It makes him feel like his father was never disappointed in him. It makes him feel like Hotch will live through the war, that _he_ will live the war. It makes Reid feel like he actually wants to. Morphine speaks in a voice more soothing than Eugene Roe's, sweeter than Garcia's. It speaks to him now.

Reid expects his hands to shake when he pulls out the ampule. They don't.

 

* * *

The doctor and two nurses try to get him to stay at the aid station. The doctor raises his voice, throws words at Reid like _rest_ and _recovery_ and _report_. He launches the word _charges_ like a grenade.

Reid shrugs them off. They drop to the floor and shatter. The pieces shine like kaleidoscopes on the stained cement. It doesn't matter if he goes AWOL. He's not at a hospital, the doctor is simply enjoying the sound of his own voice, his illusion of power. Reid smiles. It's not like he can be demoted. There's nothing lower than a private.

On the way out he takes a medic bag. A _replacement_ medic bag. There are a pile of them on a table, empty. They look lonely. He fills one with clean strips of rags and three tourniquets. It's not much, but it's better than the nothing he had.

He is still made of sunlight when he steps outside. Not early afternoon sunlight, but the final golden hours that border twilight. Reid blinks. His mouth is dry.

The morning is bitter, the sky chalk. Reid doesn't mind, he has his own warmth.

He stands in front of the aid station. The wind blows his hair, his scarf. He holds his helmet in one hand. In the other, his new medic kit. Next door is the PX. There's a soldier inside, sorting mail. There's a Screaming Eagle patch on his sleeve, the 506th parachute emblem on his cap.

The soldier looks up. "Help you?"

"Is any of that mail for Easy Company, 506th?"

The man nods. "Sure is. You lookin' for a letter?"

Reid smiles. "Just a ride."

* * *

Luz doesn't even have to think. "Warm feet. Like, three pairs of socks and big fuckin' slippers warm feet."

Skip looks disappointed. " _That's_ what you miss the most?"

"Fuck yeah, I miss havin' goddamn circulation down there." He makes a face, rolls his eyes. "And down _there_."

Muck laughs. Liebgott smirks.

"I'd still rather have a great big juicy hamburger," Penk says dreamily.

"The only thing I miss is Faye." Muck smiles beatifically.

Luz takes a drag on his cigarette, glares at Skip. "You're a terrible person, you know that?"

Muck gives Luz a little nod. "Takes one to know one."

Liebgott takes his turn. "I miss big soft titties." He's shivering, his lips blue around his Lucky Strike.

Several of the other guys whistle and guffaw.

Don leans toward Muck. "What, like some kind of ghostly floating titties or the whole package?"

Skip shrugs. "I ain't gonna ask."

Luz fiddles with the radio, still chuckling. He tries to wipe the frost off with his sleeve, succeeds in smearing it around some, but that's all. There's movement and he turns, expecting to see Johnny or Lip. He stares, cigarette dangling. Ash drops onto his hand but he doesn't even notice.

"Reid."

Muck flaps his hand at Luz, annoyed. "You already picked."

"No," Luz says, pointing. " _Reid._ "

The gangly medic stands beside Allen Vest. He looks like he's had the shit beat out of him. Or lost to Winters in a wrestling match. His stupid purple scarf is tied around one boot, his helmet's dented, and his glasses are crooked. What the fuck is this kid doing back here?

George decides to find out. "It's not like we ain't delighted to see you, Doc, but what the fuck are you doin' back here?"

Muck and Don are already running over to him, shaking his hand, patting his back.

"I'm fine," Spencer tells them. Reid's voice is nearly as thin as the rest of him. "The doctor declared me fit for duty." He shrugs, smiles. "So here I am."

"Hey guys," Vest says, "I'm here too. How about some love?" He holds up a bag. "I got mail."

"Whatcha got for me?" Luz asks, reaching for the bag.

Vest pulls it away. "I got nothin' but the utmost respect for you, George Luz."

"Fuck that," Luz says, "what about a package from my ma?"

Vest shakes his head. "Sorry. But how's this?" Allen reaches into his pocket, tosses George a rectangular object.

Luz catches it in one hand. It's chocolate. Real chocolate. Holy jumping fuck, there _is_ something better than warm feet. He beams. "Thanks, Vest."

Vest does a little two-finger salute. "You betcha." He moves off through the men, calling names, handing out letters and parcels.

George walks over to the guys clumped around Reid. "You sure you're okay, Doc?"

Reid nods, his long hair obscuring his face. "I'm good as new."

* * *

Roe's on his way back from the latrine when he hears Shifty and Popeye. "--back faster than Joe Toye did. That's mighty impressive."

Eugene stops, rubs his hands together. "Who's back?"

Shifty smiles at him from beneath his snow-camouflaged helmet. "Doc Houdini's back."

"I guess he really is magic," Popeye drawls through a smile.

Roe walks off, on the lookout for Hotch. He's not angry Reid's back. Not exactly. He's thankful to have help. But how the hell is Reid supposed to help if he's too injured to do anything? Dammit, Reid's supposed to cut the workload in half, not give Roe more to do. What's he thinking comin' back this fast?

Hotch is playing a game of chess with Perco. "Hey," Roe calls, "your buddy's back."

Hotchner looks up, confused. "My buddy? Who--?" He stares hard at Roe. "What? Reid's back? Already?"

"So I hear. You wanna tell me what that's all about?"

"No," Perconte interjects. "He wants to take his turn." Frank points at the little game board. "Right, Hotch?"

Hotch jumps to his feet. He looks stunned. "Can he even walk?"

"Aw, come on, guys. Can't we finish the game first?" Frank looks from Roe to Hotch. "Please?"

"Later, Perconte," Hotch says, and joins Roe.

Eugene can tell Hotch is pissed. No, pissed ain't right. Worried. And from the look on Aaron's face, Roe is betting this ain't the first time Hotch has been worried about Reid.

They find Spencer with Muck, Malarkey and Luz. They're huddled inside Luz's foxhole, Reid sits up top, on the edge. Roe narrows his eyes. Reid probably can't get down in there without pulling his stitches. Jesus.

Roe seats himself on one side of Reid, Hotch on the other. Reid smiles, but doesn't look too sincere about it. "Hi, guys."

"Hi yourself," Hotch says. "You look an awful lot like my friend Spencer, but he's got the brains to stay at the aid station or hospital until he's healed up." Hotch lifts an eyebrow. "So my question is, who the fuck are you?"

Reid sighs like he's been holding in a week's worth of air. "Hotch, it's no big deal. My foot's okay, the shrapnel didn't hit anything important, and my head's fine."

"I sincerely doubt that," Eugene says. "If you were thinkin' straight you wouldn't be here."

Spencer's smile has a little honesty behind it this time. "I could say that about all you guys."

Luz nods sadly. "He has a point."

Roe lowers his voice. "How you gonna help the guys when you can't even help yourself? Can you even walk?" Reid looks awful. His face is flushed, his forehead slick with sweat.

"I can walk. And I _can_ get into the foxhole," Reid says, giving Roe a _nice try_ look. "I just didn't want to cuz I figured you'd be looking for me." His smile turns sweet. "And I don't have a fever. I'm just a little tired."

Damn. The kid's good. "I just don't want--"

Reid interrupts. "I know. Don't worry. I just wanted to get back and help. What kind of a replacement would I be if you needed to replace me?"

Roe simply looks at Reid. Gene gets that Reid wants to help and he's thankful. But he doesn't need to kill himself doing it. Still, Reid's had the same training Gene has. If Reid thinks he can handle being back, Roe figures he should trust the kid's decision. Roe nods grudgingly. "Okay. But you hafta monitor yourself for any sign of infection. I'll be keeping an eye on you."

Spencer nods. "Okay." He pats his pocket. "Oh, by the way, I have something for you." He hands Gene a chocolate bar.

Roe's heart feels like a clenched fist. He swallows. "Where'd...where'd you get that?"

"Private Vest got a hold of some chocolate, he was giving it out." Reid shrugs, unaware of what this kindness, this gesture means to Roe. "I wanted to make sure you got some." Reid tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. He looks young. He looks innocent. He looks nervous. He looks like he belongs anywhere but here.

Gene looks at the chocolate. He looks at Reid's fingers. They remind him of Renée's. Her blue scarf is long gone, but sometimes, when Eugene is alone, he lets himself recall the soft music of her voice, her smile. He takes Reid's gift, touched.

"Thanks."

"What about me?" Hotch looks almost hurt.

Spencer shakes his head. "Sorry. Chocolate has medicinal properties, that's why Gene needs it. When you become a medic I'll give you some too."

Hotch frowns, folds his arms. "Fine. See if I share the next--"

Reid laughs. "I'm kidding. Here." He hands a second bar to Aaron.

The look of relief on Hotch's face is downright comical. He pulls Reid into an awkward hug. "I'm glad you're back."

"You just take it easy," Roe reminds him.

Spencer looks down at his hands. "I will."

 

  



	5.   Though I Am in Still Water 5/5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during _The Breaking Point._ You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.

  
**Written for the Eagle's Nest Crossover Challenge.**

**Title:**   Though I Am in Still Water 5/5  
 **Author:** [](http://buffyaddict13.livejournal.com/profile)[**buffyaddict13**](http://buffyaddict13.livejournal.com/)    
 **Fandom:** Band of Brothers / Criminal Minds crossover  
 **Rating:** R for language and drug use  
 **Total Words:** ~33,000  
 **Characters/Pairing:** Gen, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Skip Muck, Carwood Lipton, Don Malarkey, Roy Cobb, Bill Guarnere, Joe Toye, Lewis Nixon, Babe Heffron, Eugene Roe, Derek Morgan, Alex Penkala, Dick Winters, George Luz, Don Hoobler, Lester Hashey, etc.  
 **Summary:** Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.  
 **Disclaimer** : I don't own the Band of Brothers book or miniseries. I also don't own Criminal Minds. In fact, I own nothing except my own addled imagination. I'm sad to be me.  
 **A/N 1:** This fic came about for two reasons. The first, is, I love Spencer Reid and decided I wanted to see him as a World War 2 medic. The second is, ~~I'm crazy~~ I thought maybe I could trick fans of Criminal Minds into watching Band of Brothers. *evil laugh* Note: This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during _The Breaking Point._ You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.  
 **A/N 2:** Info on [Criminal Minds](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Criminal_Minds) and [Band of Brothers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Band_of_Brothers_\(TV_miniseries\)) with pics and links to characters for those interested.  
 **A/N 3:** Thank you to [](http://users.livejournal.com/__kat__/profile)[**__kat__**](http://users.livejournal.com/__kat__/)  , [](http://degare.livejournal.com/profile)[**degare**](http://degare.livejournal.com/)  , and [](http://venacavarex.livejournal.com/profile)[**venacavarex**](http://venacavarex.livejournal.com/)  for the absolutely gorgeous artwork. I'll be sharing their pretties throughout the fic. Thank you! ♥

_"They never taught us anything really useful like how to light a cigarette in the wind, or make a fire out of wet wood, or bayonet a man in the belly instead of the ribs where it gets jammed."_  
~Erich Maria Remarque, _All Quiet On The Western Front_

 

  
  
artwork by __kat__

Reid can't sleep. He lies awake, watching the sky. Flares turn the night to day. Shells fall nearby. New foxholes were dug while Reid was gone. This time the shells bring noise, not the promise of death. This is just another lullaby.

Reid shivers beneath his thin blanket. He can't get warm. Hotch's body heat doesn't even help. Spencer knows why. He can't stop shivering for the same reason his foot doesn't hurt, that the pain in his side seems part of someone else's body.

Reid covers his face with his hands. He doesn't want to be the person he's become. He's supposed to be stronger than this. He's not this weak. Reid's father was the weak one, he's the one who couldn't handle a sick wife or a genius son. But Reid's just as guilty. What does it matter that his body's here? He's still spent the past two days running away.

The shelling continues. Its the sound of Ares wandering through the forest, uprooting trees, smashing the earth. Paul whispers inside Reid's head. _We lie under the network of arching shells and live in a suspense of uncertainty._

Uncertainty surrounds them all, thicker and heavier than the constant fog.

Reid thinks of his mother, what she'd do if she received a letter stating he was dead. He should write her. Tell her he's okay. That he's studying. That he loves her. Spencer goes as far as digging a pencil and notebook out of his bag. But the pencil and paper might as well be oil and water, he can't bring them together.

Hotch stirs. "Go to sleep."

Reid nods. "I will. Sorry I woke you."

Hotch snorts. "Unless you're behind the shelling, you're not the reason I'm awake."

Reid wants to tell Hotch the truth. He's spent most of his life lying about his mother, protecting her, protecting himself. He's tired of lying. But he can't seem to stop. Spencer opens his mouth, licks his lips. Hotch will forgive him. Hotch will help him. That's what Hotch does. All Reid has to do is ask.

His throat closes, shrinks down to a hot straw, his words expand to stones. Spencer shivers beneath the blanket, and when he is able to speak, the only word he can manage is a hoarse "goodnight."

* * *

Perconte's using his jump knife to scrape an unidentified stain off the leg of his trousers. His uniform still looks shitty, but slightly less shitty than five minutes ago.

"Frank?"

Frank looks up. Houdini's lookin' in on him.

"What?"

The doc slides down into the foxhole. "Do you have any morphine?" He pats his medic bag. "I'm trying to get a few more supplies. Roe only has one syrette and I don't want to take his."

Perco sighs. Christ. Why is everybody always comin' around sniffin' at his stuff?

"I dunno," Frank says irritably. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't."

Houdini watches Frank move the knife up and down. "That works pretty good," the kid says.

Frank shrugs. "Yeah. I guess."

The doc pulls at his jacket. Perco can see the livid stitches peek out from beneath the bandage. "Don't bleed on me," Frank warns.

"I won't. It stopped bleeding. I just wanted to see if I could get the blood off my jacket. Can you show me how to do it?"

"It ain't gonna look good as new or nothin', but it's the closest we got to laundry day out here." Frank holds up the knife, demonstrates scraping it against the fabric. "You just get as close as you can, without cutting the fabric. The sharper your knife, the better it works."

"Thanks."

Houdini actually looks grateful. His eye is less swollen, but he still looks like he hasn't slept in a month. "Do you want to play a game of chess?" the doc asks.

Perco huffs. "The last time I played you, you beat me in twelve moves."

"I can take longer," Reid offers.

"Jeez, takin' longer to kick my ass? That's mighty kind."

"What about a book?" Reid asks. "I have some books I can lend you."

This kid just don't give up. "Look Doc, I ain't in the mood for company. I got a letter from my wife with another picture of my kid. My kid is fuckin' adorable. Only I've never seen him. And there's a good possibility I never will. So thanks for the offer, but unless you can get me a trip home, there's nothin' you have that I want." Unless. Frank lifts an eyebrow. "Any of those books got sex in 'em?"

"Um. No. Not really." Reid swallows. "I'm...I'm sorry that you haven't been able to see your son yet."

That's it. Frank's gonna clean his uniform and brood. Eventually he'll write a letter to Evelyn and then he'll bitch to Luz. There. His day is all planned out. And none of those plans include Reid. Could the guy _be_ more awkward?

Frank sighs. Nobody has books with good sex parts around here. "Okay then, get out."

Reid turns to go.

"Wait just a sec," Frank says, digging in his pack. He pulls out his syrette of morphine. "Don't say I never gave you nothin."

Reid reaches for the box, hesitates. He looks at Frank's face with a searching expression. His eyes go all sad, he looks like he's been kicked every day of his life. Like Frank's kicking him now. What the fuck is that all about?

The moment passes, so does Reid's expression. "Thanks Frank. I really appreciate it."

* * *

Lip, Martin, Hotch and a dozen other guys clear the woods west of Foy. There's some sporadic gunfire, but nobody gets hurt. Reid checks on Alley's trench foot, Liebgott's phlegmy cough.

Reid spends most of the day trying to avoid Roe and Hotch. He doesn't bother shaving. What's the point? Roe tracks him down around midday, brings him coffee. He inspects the flowering bruise on Reid's temple.

"Lemme see your side."

"I'm capable of inspecting my own wound," Reid says. He knows he sounds like an asshole, but he can't help it. He is one.

Roe ignores Reid's protest. "Two sets of eyes are better than one." He lifts Reid's shirt, frowns. The bandage is stained rust, but it's still secure. Gene peels it away carefully, checks the stitches. He pokes gingerly at Spencer's skin. "This hurt?"

Eugene's prying fingers don't hurt. The wound feels fine. Reid likes Gene, he likes him a lot, and that's precisely why he has to get rid of him.

"No, it's good. Fine. There's no fresh bleeding, no signs of infection, no pain." Reid pulls away, yanks at his jacket. "Thanks for the coffee."

Roe's forehead creases and he gives Reid a long look. The medic's gaze feels like fire. Reid can feel his face burn. Finally, Roe nods. "Okay. Good."

Reid walks away, nearly running. The scarf around his boot comes loose, but he can't risk stopping, can't risk Roe catching up to him. He ends up next to a pine tree, squatting in the snow. He ties the scarf tighter, rests his forehead on his knee.

There's a cigarette butt half buried in the snow beside his boot. He blinks at it, starts to laugh. He's not willing to smoke, to dirty his lungs with cigarettes but he's okay with sticking himself full of opiate. Reid sits in the snow, laughing, one hand clapped over his mouth.

Bull Randleman walks by, rifle slung over his shoulder. He's a big guy, but graceful. He's got the stump of a cigar clamped between his teeth. His blond eyebrows lift at the sight of Reid.

"What's so funny, boy?"

Reid just shakes his head. He can't speak. If he utters a single word the laughter will turn to something darker, more desperate.

Bull stares a second longer, shrugs. "I think you got knocked on the head harder than you think."

Reid can't disagree with Bull's assessment.

There are more pancakes for dinner. Spencer chokes one down, but he's not hungry. It tastes like guilt. Like shame. Eventually Reid winds up near Muck, Malarkey, Penk and Luz.

Luz is doing his new impression of Dike. It's pretty good. The other guys laugh.

Sergeant Lipton walks up, exuding authority and kindness in equal measure. Reid wishes he could be like Lip. Or Hotch. Or Roe. Anyone other than who he is, really.

Lip nods. "Hey, Luz."

Muck's still marveling over Luz's impression. It captures Dike's combination of assholery and cowardice perfectly. Skip shakes his head in disgust. "Complete asshole."

Malarkey's impressed. "That's really good."

Luz glances from Lip to the guys. He's wearing an _oh shit, I'm in trouble now_ expression. "You know, fellas."

Malarkey takes Luz's cue. "Good night, all."

"Yeah, see you, Luz." He gives Reid a grin and a wave. "See you, Malark."

Reid pokes at the snow with a stick. He writes: S = A + L times N over 2. The equation's not his. It belongs to a fictional German named Mueller. He listens to Lip compliment Luz on his impression. He listens to Lip ask Luz not to do it again. Lip asks in such a way that you'd have to be the biggest dick in the world to refuse him. How does he do that?

Reid stands, brushes the snow from his legs, the seat of his pants. He should probably turn in too. Perco's morphine is in his pocket. He could--

There's a deafening explosion.

Someone screams the dreaded word: "Incoming!"

There's another explosion. Reid is knocked off his feet. He feels hands on shoulder, around his waist. Liebgott and Alley pull him into their foxhole. They huddle together, Liebgott hacking painfully into his sleeve.

"Luz! Come on! Come on! Hurry! Luz!"

Oh God. Luz is still out there.

Malark and Penk scream for George to hurry up.

The morphine does the same to Reid.

Spencer sweats, trembles, lifts his head over the edge of the hole. He can see Luz running, falling. He's crawling along the ground. Please. Please let him make it.

Reid listens. He listens to his need, to Muck, to Leibgott, who's shrieking _get down, get down_. He listens for Hotch. For someone calling his name.

Trees splinter, the earth cracks. Snow falls, dirt rises. Men scream.

"Stay down! Come on! Get in!" Muck calls, his voice barely audible over the end of the world.

Luz is still crawling toward Skip and Alex, eyes wide with terror, teeth clenched in determination, desperation.

Reid's in the process of dragging himself out of the hole, he'll grab Luz himself, pull him to safety, when Muck and Penkala explode.

There's a flash of fire, noise, Muck's helmet hangs in the air, and then its gone. They're gone. A wave of ash blows toward Luz. He shrieks, groans, turns toward Lip.

Reid stares at the empty hole, mouth open.

Incredibly, the shelling continues.

It should be over now, Muck is dead. The war should end. The world should end. No. _No._ Reid shakes his head. He's a medic, they're okay. He can save them. He has bandages and morphine and the will to help. Surely that's enough. That has to be enough. He starts moving.

Liebgott pulls him back. "Stay here," Lieb says. His eyes are huge, much too big for his face, his hair sticks up. He's been biting his lips, they're bleeding. His teeth are red. "You're gonna get killed out there."

"Medic! Medic!"

Reid kicks Lieb's hand free. He has to go. Someone's calling. Maybe it's Muck.

It's not.

Reid runs toward the injured soldier. He has no prayers. He doesn't believe in God. He doesn't believe in anything except the calm goodness of the men he serves with, and two of them just got blown to dust. He falls back on Paul Bäumer's words. They offer no comfort, but he whispers them anway. He whispers them because the feel of the words in his throat, the sound of his choked voice proves that for now, he's still alive.

_Let the months and years come, they can take nothing from me, they can take nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear._

He runs without fear.

Lester Hashey is face down in the snow.

_Let the months and years come, they can take nothing from me, they can take nothing more._ Reid drops to his knees, beside the fallen soldier. "Hashey!" There's no blood.

"Shit!" Hashy groans, "It's my shoulder!"

"Come on! Get up! Move!" Reid puts an arm around Lester and drags him to the closest foxhole. He checks Hashey's shoulder. There's a red mark and its tender, but the skin isn't broken. Hashey was probably hit by a flying branch.

"You're okay," Reid tells him. Then, "We've got to stop meeting like this."

Hashey smiles grimly. "No kidding."

The 88s fall.

Reid leans his head against the dirt, closes his eyes. He puts his hands against the wall of the hole. The earth trembles with him. He whispers, lips barely moving, _Let the months and years come, they can take nothing from me, they can take nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear._

The shelling stops.

Men emerge tentatively from foxholes. No one is seriously wounded. Except, of course, for Muck and Penkala. Hashey leaves first. Reid takes just enough time to empty the syrette, bury it in the snow. He needs the _goodhappysafesunlightbetter_. He'll never be able to face the loss of Skip without it. He follows Hashey, blinking hard.

"Where are they?' he asks. His speech is slurred. No one notices. Reid stumbles toward Muck and Penk's foxhole. Luz is already there.

"Get back," Luz says. His voice is broken. He doesn't sound like Georgie Luz. He sounds the way Reid feels. "There's nothing here," Luz says. He looks stunned. He sinks to the ground, head in his hands.

Roe's there too. He pats Reid's shoulder, wipes his face. Gene sniffs, wipes his face again. "I'll...I'll tell Malark."

Reid closes his eyes. Thank God for Roe. Spencer would need a hell of a lot more morphine than this to handle the look on Don's face.

Lip is in charge, as always. He instructs the men, comforts them. Reid walks past him, heads for the false safety of his own foxhole. For Hotch.

Paul Bäumer's sitting on a little hill of snow. He's leaning against his rifle. Reid almost waves, catches himself. He sits beside the World War I soldier.

"We live in the trenches out there. We fight. We try not to be killed," Paul says. He looks at Reid sadly, lifts one shoulder. "But sometimes we are. That's all."

_That's all._

Muck and Penk are dead. That's all.

Toye and Guarnere got their legs blown off. That's all.

Reid is seeing, hearing, men who don't exist. That's all.

His mother started hearing fictional characters too. Men from the literature classes she taught climbed right out of her books and into her head.

This isn't the same thing. This is stress. This is his concussion talking. This is what terror sounds like. It has the quiet voice of Paul Bäumer.

Reid's a good liar. But he can still tell when he's lying to himself. He leaves Paul behind. Hotch is in their foxhole. Reid tries to feel relieved. He's glad Hotch is alive. But he can't feel much beyond the warmth of the drug and a deep, insistent exhaustion.

"Reid! Are you all right?"

"Muck and Penkala are dead," Reid says. He drops into their hole, wraps himself in his blanket.

" _What?_ What happened?"

Reid does't want to talk about it.

Hotch does.

_Let the months and years come, they can take nothing from me._ "A shell fell right into their foxhole." It hit them dead on. Dead center. Reid never realized just how apt those descriptions really are.

Spencer closes his eyes, pulls the blanket over his head.

Aaron's voice moves closer. "Spencer? Are you okay?"

"It hurts," Reid whispers. He speaks to his dirty wool blanket, not to Hotch.

"What does?" Aaron sounds gentle.

Reid doesn't know how to answer. His heart hurts. His mind. Everything hurts. Except his body. He lies. "My side." He moves the blanket, looks at Hotch. Not at Hotch's face, he can't make eye contact, but he can look at Hotch's ear, his eyebrow. "Do you have any morphine?"

Hotch is quiet. "Roe said you were feeling okay."

He's actually proud at how quickly, how easy, the lie comes. "I was. But I pulled some stitches dragging Hashey." It's not a complete lie. He _did_ pull Hashey. It's _possible_ he pulled some stitches.

"Reid?"

"Yeah?"

"You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?"

No. Not anymore. It's too late. _That's all._ Reid forces his mouth into a smile. "Sure."

When Aaron hands him the ampule, Reid can't see his face. Reid doesn't have to. At least Hotch is alive to feel disappointed in him.

* * *

The battle starts bad, right off the bat. When Dike freezes up on the field Eugene can literally feel his vision turn red. That chickenshit motherfucker is gonna get everybody killed. Oh God. He wraps his grandmother's leather cord around his palm and prays _Lord, make me a channel of your peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, your pardon Lord; and where there's doubt, true faith in you._

Reid's next to him. The kid looks gutted. Not as bad as Malarkey, but bad. Reid's face is flushed, he's leaning against a tree like he can't even stand. He's been wringing his hands like an old woman for the past five minutes.

Finally, Winters has enough of Dike's useless bullshit and sends Speirs out to take over. The men move forward amid mortar strikes and machine gun fire.

Roe bounces on the balls of his feet, jaw clenched. Come on, come on, let this thing end with no casualties. Goddammit, Perco's been hit. Gene paces back and forth, restless, stomach churning. How can Reid just sit there like a fucking bump on a log?

The battle shifts off the field and into the streets of Foy. It doesn't look like there are too many wounded. That's good.

He starts running toward Perco, Hotch and Johnny have him next to a barn. Ken Webb's down too. _Laisser les bons temps rouler,_ Roe thinks bitterly. Let the good times roll.

Eugene expects to find Houdini lagging behind, but he's right there with him. He directs Reid to Webb. Within seconds Roe's at Frank's side.

"Hey Frank, you paint a target on your ass or what?"

Perconte grits his teeth. "Ah fuck, Eugene. It fuckin' hurts. Fuck my ass, the bullet got me in the thigh."

"Yeah well, it came out your ass, so you ain't broke the Easy Company tradition after all."

"He gonna be okay?" Martin asks. He's holding Frank's arm like he's never gonna let go.

Roe tears Frank's uniform so he can see the damage. There's a lot of blood, but not too much. It's a painful wound, but it doesn't look deadly. Eugene breathes a little easier. He smiles at Frank. "You're gonna be okay, Perco."

"Thank Christ," Martin says. "If you weren't around, I'd be the shortest guy here."

Frank scowls. "You already are." His face contorts. "Shit. God. I didn't need a fuckin' Purple Heart this bad."

"Looks like you're gonna get one anyway," Roe says.

"What can I do?" Hotch asks. "Should I find Luz, have him call the BAS? Find a makeshift stretcher?"

Reid comes running up. He looks unsteady. He drops down beside Roe. "Webb's dead. So's Mellet."

Martin closes his eyes, turns away. "Oh, fuck."

"Dammit," Roe grunts.

Roe thinks. Word is, they're moving out tonight. So the aid station's probably already down. "Find Lip or Speirs--whoever's in charge--and tell them we've got two KIA and one wounded. If you can find a stretcher, that'd be great."

Hotch nods and takes off at a run.

Frank shifts, rolls his head. "Jesus H. Christ on a Tuesday." He turns to Martin. "Johnny, what about my stuff? I need my stuff."

Martin smiles. "We wouldn't want the enemy usin' your toothpaste, that's for damn sure." He rests a hand on Frank's head. "I'll make sure you get your stuff, okay? Don't worry about it."

Frank's eyes go glassy. "Evie sent me a picture of the baby."

Martin leans down, speaks right into Frank's face. "You're gonna see the kid." His voice leaves no room for doubt.

"Hey Houdini," Frank groans, "You got that morphine I gave ya? I think now's a good time to break it out."

Roe and Martin both look at Reid, expectant.

Reid's kneeling. He leans back on his heels. He blinks. Rubs a hand over his mouth. His hand trembles. "Um," Reid says. His eyes flick to Roe, away again.

Just like that, Roe knows. The little son of a bitch has been using the morphine himself. Maybe not the whole time, but at least since he got hurt. The sweating, anxiety, moodiness, it's all there. Hell, all the guys are moody and anxious, but they're not flushed, they're not sweating, they don't avoid eye contact. No wonder Reid didn't feel any pain when Roe checked his side. Fucking asshole.

Reid looks sick, he looks trapped, and part of Roe is glad, wants to let him hang himself, but this isn't the time or place.

"I got you," Roe says, and reaches for the syrette Reid gave him. He takes a deep breath, tries to stay calm for Frank's sake. For Johnny's. If Reid has been injecting himself with morphine the whole time, there's no way he'd have shared any with Roe. He's heard the story about the German who helped Reid. That Kraut didn't do Reid any favors.

Roe sticks Frank with the syrette. He's not sure who relaxes more, Frank, Johnny, or Spencer. What a fuckin' mess.

Hotch returns. He's got Bull and part of a German camouflage tent. "This'll work, right?"

Roe nods. "Good enough."

Hotch and Bull lift Frank onto the tent, they each pick up an end. "Jesus Christ, don't drop me on my ass," Frank bleats. He looks more terrified of the tent ride than the hole in his ass.

"We ain't gonna drop you on any of your parts," Bull says calmly. He shifts his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. He glances at Hotch. "You ready?"

Hotch nods. They move off slowly, carrying Frank between them.

Reid remains on the ground.

"Stand up," Roe snaps. "Look at me."

Reid looks at him, but won't meet his eyes. What a surprise. Roe gets a good enough look to see Spencer's pupils are pin pricks. Jesus fucking Christ. If he weren't a medic, he'd kill Reid right now.

Roe leans down, rests his hands on his thighs. He tries to keep calm. He feels like he deserves a Bronze Star at the very least for keeping his voice steady. He sounds almost friendly.

"You think I'm stupid?"

Reid shakes his head.

"Are _you_ stupid?"

Reid doesn't do anything this time. He just stands there, looks at this feet like a kid in trouble with his teacher.

Fuck _that._

"You seem to know a lot, been to college, read a lot of books. You'd think you'd have learned somewhere in there that injecting yourself with morphine's a bad idea."

"I know," Reid whispers. He looks torn between fury and despair. Despair wins. His voice turns as thin and small as a blade of grass. "I'm--I'm sorry."

"You're _sorry_ ," Roe spits. He shoves a finger in Reid's chest. "You are a grown-up. You should know better. You're not just fuckin' with your own life, you're fuckin' with the life of every man in this company."

Roe takes a step back. He glares at Reid, fuming. "I get that you're new. You feel like you don't belong. And after this, I think you're prob'ly right. But I been with these men for almost three years. _Three years_ , Reid. These men ain't just soldiers to me. They're my family. And if you're too out of your head to do your goddamn job, then you risk their lives. And that make me want to beat on you 'til you need your own medic, you understand me?"

"I know," Reid says again. "I'm sorry. I would never--"

"You would never," Roe repeats scornfully. "Only you just did. I can see you're doped up right now. And what if I wouldn'ta had morphine for Frank? Then what?" Roe's smile makes Reid flinch. "You asked him for his morphine so you could stick it in yourself?" He shakes his head, sickened. "Va te faire foutre."

Reid looks up, pushes the hair out of his face, adjusts his glasses. "No," he says, "fuck _you_. You don't know what it's like knowing--"

"I don't know _what_?" Eugene demands. He runs his hands through his hair, incensed. "I know what it's like to see men's skin burned off by phosphorus shells. I know what it's like to see my friends die right in front of my face. I know what it's like to see guys lose their arms, legs, their fuckin' _heads_. I know what everything's like," Roe says. This asshole's been here two weeks and he thinks--

"Schizophrenia." Reid shouts the word. "It comes from the Greek words _schizein_ and _phren_ which roughly translates as 'splitting of the mind.'"

Roe frowns, caught off guard. What?

"My mom has schizophrenia," Reid says. His voice drops toward the ground. "Ever since I was kid. I had to put her away. I had my own mother committed because I couldn't help her." Reid holds his hands out like the twin pans of a scale. "I couldn't take care of her. She doesn't want me to be here, she doesn't even know where I am." He looks like he's about to burst into tears, but he curls his hands into fists.

Roe rolls his eyes. "You think my mom wants me here? You think anybody's does?"

"At least your mother knows where you are, when she sees you, she can recognize you."

Eugene sighs. Okay. So here is a little of what's behind Reid's problem. Not only is the war shit, so is his life back home. Well. Too fuckin' bad.

Reid pulls that goddamn book out of his bag. "She read this to me when I was--"

Roe takes two quick steps, yanks _All Quiet on the Western Front_ out of Reid's hand and sends it sailing. It lands a good twenty feet away and disappears into the snow.

"You think you're the only person who's ever read that book? Who cares about Paul and what he went through? You think you're the only person who knows war is bad? Did you really need a book to tell you that?"

Reid stares at Roe with wounded eyes.

"I've got a quote for you, Reid. 'And our bodies are earth. And our thoughts are clay. And we sleep and eat with death.' Recognize that? We sleep and eat with death every day, Reid. All we've got is each other. That's it. You're not Paul, you're not stuck in some World War I trench, you're _here_. These men need you _now_.

"These men put their lives on the line every single day. These are good men. These are the best men I will ever know. For God's sake, do them the courtesy of not being out of your mind on morphine when you tend to their wounds."

* * *

When Roe's finally done yelling and stalks off, Reid carefully digs his book out of the snow. He wipes it dry with the hem of his coat, puts it back in his bag. He stands by himself for a few minutes, his back to the barn, and cries. He cries for Hoobler. He cries for Guarnere and Toye. He cries for Skip Muck and Alex Penkala. He cries for the man he's become. He cries for his lost mother, his missing father. He cries because he let Eugene Roe down. He's let everyone down. Especially himself. He cries because even now, after everything, he still wants morphine more than anything else. More than forgiveness, more than self respect.

He wants it, but he no longer needs it. He won't let himself.

Never again.

Reid cries until his head aches and eyes burn. He leans his head against the cold wood. The wind cuts his face, his hands. He wipes his eyes, rubs his nose on his sleeve. He feels empty, like he's been scrubbed clean. He's hollow. The sunlight is gone now, only darkness remains. He's been afraid of the dark his whole life, but he knows there are worse things than the dark. Getting lost is one thing. Losing _yourself_ is another. He'll find his way back to the man he wants to be eventually.

He will.

When he heads toward the waiting trucks, he avoids everyone. His shame is company enough. Everything Roe said is true. Reid's been busy trying to make himself feel better, instead of the men. And worst of all, his "better" never lasts long enough, his relief is always denigrated by guilt. By lies.

Spencer keeps thinking about the look of desperate trust on Perco's face when he asked for the morphine. His shame is so heavy Reid feels dizzy beneath its weight. Fresh tears sting his eyes. Thank God Eugene still had morphine. Thank God Roe's a better man than Reid is, will ever be.

The men are relieved to be in trucks. There's laughter, cigarettes, gossip, jokes. Reid plans to sit by himself, as far from Hotch and Roe as possible, until he sees Malark. It looks like Malarkey has the same idea. He sits at the far end of the truck, Muck's rosary in his hand. He's erected a wall around himself, his body language screams _keep away._

Reid doesn't listen. He works his way down the bench until he's next to Don.

"I'm sorry about Skip," Reid says softly.

Malarkey ignores him.

Reid leans closer, so Don's the only one who can hear. "You'll get through this. Skip was a good man. He...he loved you. He'd want you to go on, you know that. Maybe not now, but you will. And Don, I'll help you in whatever way I can. It's time I stopped fucking up my own life and help somebody else."

Don turns to look at Reid. He looks like he's seeing Reid from a great distance. "You...you said _fuck_." Malarkey looks mildly surprised.

Reid smiles, a little embarrassed. "I know plenty of four letter words, I just prefer the ones with two or more syllables."

Don blinks, recedes.

"That was a joke. A stupid joke." Reid bows his head, frustrated. "I'm sorry. I'm not always good at talking to--with--people," he finishes awkwardly. "I just want you to know, you're not alone, Malark."

Malarkey looks back at him, a faint smile frozen on his face. His red hair burns dully beneath his helmet. "I know. It only feels like I am."

They ride the rest of the way in silence, but gradually, Don relaxes enough to let his elbow touch Reid's.

 

* * *

Reid sits in the back of chapel, in a convent in Rachamps. The choir sings, the chapel is warm, the men are quiet. Dozens of candles cast a golden sunset along the walls. Perco's curled on his side next to Roe.

Spencer sits by himself.

Hotch watches his friend surreptitiously from the other side of the chapel. After a long, depressing conversation with Eugene, Hotch feels no anger toward Reid. There's a fair amount of disappointment, but Aaron saves most of it for himself. He should have realized something was wrong, should have seen the signs.

Spencer's been avoiding almost everyone but Malarkey and Cobb. He's not unfriendly, and Aaron doubts most of the guys even notice. But Aaron does. He knows Reid's avoidance stems from guilt. And Hotch has been letting him get away with it. Mostly because he feels guilty too.

But that stops now.

Reid is smoothing a crumpled piece of paper over a Hymn Book. He's got a pencil in his hand. Every time he tries to write something, the pencil stops in midair. Hotch can read the frustration on his friend's face.

Hotch steps around Reid, sits beside him. Reid stares down at the blank sheet of paper. Knowing Reid, he's composing endless apologies in his head to Aaron, to Frank, to Roe. Probably even his mother. But he just sits there, silent, staring, miserable.

Spencer glances suddenly at the pew across the aisle. He inhales sharply, and shrinks back against the padded bench, toward Hotch. Hotch follows Reid's gaze. There's no one there.

"Are you okay?"

Reid nearly jumps at Hotch's voice.

Spencer starts to nod, stops. He shakes his head, sighs deeply. "No. Not really." He looks at Hotch. His eyes are bright, his words tentative. "I'm sorry, Aaron. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm--I'm sorry I didn't ask for help."

There's fear in Reid's eyes, behind the unshed tears. Fear of rejection. It's a look that's been there for years, as long as Hotch has known this strange, talented, brilliant young man. Aaron promised himself long ago he'd never do anything to give that look credence. Spencer's already been rejected by both his parents, consciously and unconsciously. Aaron's been rejected by Haley. There's enough rejection between them, Aaron refuses to add more.

Hotch stretches his arm along the top of the pew behind Reid. He doesn't quite touch Spencer. He's letting Reid know he's here. He's got his back, that's all. Metaphorically _and_ literally.

"And I'm sorry I didn't see what you were going through," Hotch says quietly. "I think I just flunked my own class."

A smile flits over Reid's face. It's gone so fast Hotch thinks he might have imagined it. "You didn't flunk. I've got so many problems I'm like walking extra credit. We can get your grade back up."

Hotch nods. "Glad to hear it."

Reid folds the paper, tucks it in the front of the Hymnal, slips the pencil in a pocket. "Hotch?" His voice is small, nearly a whisper. It flickers like a candle. "Are...are we okay?"

Now Aaron rests his hand on Reid's shoulder. Just for a moment. "Always," Hotch says. Hotch has broken promises before. Not many, but a few. He makes a promise now, to himself, and to Reid. He'll never break this one.

Hotch clears his throat, wills the burn in his throat away. They'll get through this together. Reid's addiction, the war, everything. And then they'll go home. Together. He doesn't look at Reid when he asks, "Do you have any more?"

Reid doesn't play stupid. Hotch is relieved.

"No. Roe and I decided he'll, uh, be in charge of the morphine."

The girls' voices fill the room. The music is beautiful. Heavenly. If there is a heaven, Hotch thinks it will be like this. Someplace warm. Where he can sit with his friends. Where he can remember what peace feels like.

Hotch leans forward, rests his arms on the pew in front of him. "I know you don't think so, but you're stronger than I am, Reid. You can go home and do anything. Go home to your mom, study psychology." He flashes a crooked smile. "Learn how to fix us, yourself."

Reid rubs his chin. He runs his index finger over the edge of the Hymnal. "I don't know, Hotch. I feel like war ruins us. It ruins us for everything."

Hotch shakes his head, looks at the faces of the fine men who surround him. "War might ruin us for a lot of things, Reid," he says, "but not for each other."

* * *

The music, the chapel, the candles. It's all too beautiful. Reid has to leave, get some air. He's grateful for Hotch's acceptance, his forgiveness, but he doesn't deserve it. Not yet. He needs to make amends to the men. To Roe. And maybe, himself.

Reid excuses himself and slips outside. The cold is a slap after the warmth of the chapel.

He's not alone outside. Someone is sitting on the stone steps. The someone looks up. Reid recognizes Lewis Nixon.

Nixon nods knowingly, smirks. "So you couldn't take it in there either, huh?"

"It's just a little..."

"Too perfect," Nix finishes. "It's hard to go from a month of living in frozen dirt to a choir of angels sitting on my shoulder. I prefer a smoother segue. I'm a snob that way."

Reid smiles. He doesn't know much about Nixon except he drinks, comes from money, and he's Winters' best friend. But the use of the word _segue_ makes Reid sit on the step beside him.

"I guess I am too."

Nixon lifts his flask in a mock toast. "To snobbery." He frowns, considering. "And fewer angels."

The angel talk makes Reid think of Skip. His chest constricts painfully. He feels sick. "Angels don't fuck," Reid says absently, "they cuddle."

Nixon turns, gives Reid a hard look. Finally, he shrugs. "Good to know," he says, and then, "You're kind of an odd duck, aren't you?" Nixon takes a sip from the flask. He grunts, scratches at one wrist, then the other.

Reid ignores the odd duck comment. He's been called worse. He watches Nixon for a moment. The moon is big and bright, a silver balloon above dark clouds. The chapel windows glow. There's enough light to see that Nixon's skin is red and inflamed.

"Can I see?" Reid asks, pointing to Nixon's arms.

Nixon shrugs, holds out an arm. Reid touches the skin gently. Inflammation of the epidermis. Something in the eczema family. From the dry, scabby look of the skin, probably xerotic eczema, also called _pruritus hiemalis_ , or winter itch. "You have eczema," Reid tells him.

"Goody for me," Nixon says wearily. "How the hell do I get rid of it?"

Reid thinks. "Well, less stress helps."

They look at each other. Nixon laughs first, then Reid. "I'll get right on that."

"Um, there are several medicated lotions...which I don't have access to," Reid says slowly. "But," he holds up a finger, "coconut oil and petroleum jelly are quite helpful."

"Huh," Nixon says, reaching for his flask. "You're not."

"Butter," Reid blurts. "Butter helps. It's not as good as lotion, but it soothes the dryness. Stop itching and smear butter on your skin." Reid smiles, triumphant.

"That'd be great if we had butter in our rations."

Spencer nods. "It would be great. But that's okay, because the Germans do." Reid pulls a little cube of waxed paper from his medic bag. "I got this off a prisoner and keep a little supply in my bag. If you need more, just ask."

Nixon's eyebrows shoot up. "Hey, thanks." Now he returns Reid's smile.

The door opens behind them. Winters stands there, looking from Reid to Nixon. His eyes go wide. "Nix? You okay?"

Nixon waves his friend's worry away. "Aside from the fact my skin's peeling off, I'm great. The doc here fixed me up good, though." He holds up the cube. "With butter."

Winters and Nixon exchange a look. "I hear he's gonna fix Perconte's butt with marmalade," Winters says with a slow smile. The smile fades when he takes a look at Reid's face. "You doing okay, Spencer?"

Reid nods. "Better." For once, he's not lying.

"The kid's a medical marvel," Nixon says to Winters, and the two men go back inside. Nixon stops in the doorway, turns back to Reid. "Thanks, Doc."

Reid nods. He can't tell if Nixon's making fun of him or not. He decides it doesn't matter. "Anytime."

The door shuts.

"Not too bad."

Reid nearly falls down the stairs. He looks around, spots Roe leaning against the stone wall, arms folded. Gene steps forward, a silhouette against the gold window.

Spencer hugs himself. "You scared me." For a minute, he'd thought Paul was standing there. It was bad enough he saw him in the chapel. He picks nervously at the fraying scarf around his boot.

"Sorry," Roe says.

Reid speaks to the scarf, but the words are meant for Eugene. "No, _I'm_ sorry. I'm sorry I let you down. And the guys. I want to do better." He looks up, blinking hard. "I _will_ do better."

Eugene sits beside him, fills the empty space Nixon left behind. "I know you will." Roe crosses his arms over his knees. "What are you doin' out here?"

Reid shrugs. "I don't know." He shivers. "I just needed some air." He looks down at the Hymnal sitting beside his foot. "I was trying to write a letter." He laughs weakly. "Not having much luck."

"That reminds me." Roe has a blanket draped over one arm, he puts it around Reid's shoulders. "You're gonna feel like shit for a while."

"I already do."

Eugene laughs. "I don't mean guilt, Reid. I mean the shakes, vomiting, you name it. I told the guys you looked like you were comin' down the flu."

Reid nods, grateful. "Thanks." He looks at the side of Roe's face. "Thank you for talking to me like that. I--I needed it."

Roe looks mildly chagrined. "Yeah. I don't have much of a temper, but when it comes out, well." He grins. "Everybody notices."

Spencer twists the blanket between his fingers. "Eugene?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I tell you something?"

Roe's dark brows jump into his hairline. "Jesus, what else you got to tell me, Reid? You drinkin' Nixon's secret booze too?"

Reid looks up at the stars. He picks out the constellations, clasps his hands. His books were good teachers. Just not good enough. Books teach you, but they can't protect you.

"I've--I've been seeing things." He shifts on the cement. "Or, I guess, not so much a thing, as a person."

Roe nods, as if soldiers tell him they're nuts every day. Maybe they do. "What do you mean? Since you were a kid? Since you got here? Since you hit your head?"

"Since I hit my head. I thought it was because of the concussion, but it's still happening. I saw him yesterday," Reid's voice dips toward the ground. He pulls it back up with effort. "Tonight. In the chapel."

"Him?"

Spencer hangs his head. This is so humiliating. Admitting this is like ripping out part of his soul. Like standing naked in front of the world. He wipes his face with the blanket, looks up. If he's going to be a better person, he needs to face his fear. Even if he's afraid of himself. Of his own mind.

"Paul Bäumer." Off Roe's blank look, he adds: "The main character from _All Quiet on the Western Front._ "

"Ah. Sorry I threw that in the snow."

"It's okay. I found it."

"When'd you start seein' Paul? Before or after Tobias gave you morphine?"

Spencer thinks. He can't remember much about that day. But it must have been after. "After," he says.

"And you think because your mom's in a mental institution you're on your way to join her?"

Reid tries to protest. "No, not exactly--" he sighs, gives up. "Sort of."

Roe laughs, ruffles Reid's hair. It's a curiously affectionate gesture, and Reid doesn't know how to respond. The gesture feels like forgiveness, the same as Hotch's hand on his shoulder. Spencer can't stop the tears this time. He scrubs them away roughly, sniffs loudly. "What's so funny?" he asks. He's so busy trying not to bawl all over Doc Roe, he doesn't notice the nasal whine in his voice.

Roe laughs harder. "Jesus Reid, you know as much about morphine as I do. More, I guess. You know as well as I do one of the side effects is hallucinations." Gene stops laughing, puts a hand on Reid's arm. "You do know that, right?"

Of course Reid knows that. There's shivering and reduction of pain and insomnia and loss of appetite and depression and anxiety and nightmares and...hallucinations.

_Hallucinations_.

With his mother's history, he'd never even considered Paul a product of the drug. "Oh my God," Reid says, and drops his face into his hands. "Oh my God. I thought--I thought--" He can't continue. His shoulders shake. For the first time in a long time, Reid cries from relief, not despair.

"I'll be keepin' an eye on you," Roe says. His voice is quiet, patient. "If Paul keeps poppin' up, you tell me. Reid, I seen lots of things in the last year. I seen a soldier so scared he went blind. I seen a man try to dig a foxhole with his bare hands and his teeth. I seen a man go catatonic, he hadda be carried off the field. People get hurt in all kinds of ways. The way I figure it, the body heals a helluva lot faster than the mind does."

"I'm afraid all the time," Reid whispers. "I'm afraid of the shelling, of dying. I'm afraid I'll actually live through this and go home. I'm afraid I'll go home and end up like my mom." He tells Eugene something he's barely admitted to himself. "And if that happens, I don't think I want to live."

"You can't worry about the future," Roe says, adamant. "It's hard enough to get through each day. You wanna concentrate on the future, you concentrate on an hour from now. That's all."

Reid thinks of the Bäumer quote. _That's all._ Reid will get through this. He'll be a good medic. And maybe, he'll live. That's all.

Reid pulls a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his bag. "You want one?"

"Holy shit, Reid. When you get corrupted, you go all out."

Spencer grins. "No. I don't smoke, but you do. Figured I'd carry some around in case you or Luz or--" he almost says Muck. He catches himself. The grin fades. "--or Malark wants one. I see Lip is smoking now."

Roe nods, eyes wide. "I don't know if the war's endin' soon, but I guess the world must be. You swearin' and Lip smokin'? Sounds like end of days to me." He takes a cigarette, lights it. "Thanks."

Roe smokes and Reid looks at the stars. He's cold, he feels lousy, but the silence is nice. If he concentrates, he can hear the choir faintly. It sounds like music from a dream.

"You want me to leave you alone, or you feel like company?"

"You can stay," Reid says. He tries for nonchalant. "If you want to."

Roe just nods. Smoke drifts like a ghost.

Reid picks up the paper and pencil. He takes a deep breath. He puts lead to the paper.

He starts with two words: _Dear Mom._

 

 

  



End file.
